


Premonitions

by angstytimelord



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Prophetic Visions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 34
Words: 28,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstytimelord/pseuds/angstytimelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has a disturbing vision of a bleak future for himself while he's at a crime scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red on White

Will stared at the white sheet covering the body at the crime scene, the red stains spreading across it like spilled wine from a crystal goblet.

Only those stains weren't wine. They were blood.

He should be used to seeing crime scenes by now, shouldn't he? But somehow, he never got used to them. They always haunted him, especially when the victim had been someone so young, and someone he could have saved if they'd gotten there in time.

He always felt terrible after he'd used his empathic gift to find out just how someone had died; his stomach roiled, and he just wanted to get out of here to someplace private.

What he really wanted to do was go to Hannibal's house, to sit down in that chair facing Hannibal that he'd grown so comfortable with and tell the other man just how he felt, to let it all spill out while he still had the words, while it was fresh in his mind.

Somehow, the feeling became harder to describe when he wasn't right here in the thick of things, after he had put some distance between himself and what he'd seen.

It shouldn't be tha hard, though, should it? The feeling should never dissipate; he should never be able to feel comfortable with it, as though it was a part of him. He shouldn't ever be able to push it aside, to go on with his life as though he'd seen nothing.

Yet, somehow, he could manage to do just that.

It bothered him. It almost felt as though he was indifferent to what he saw, and that was one thing that he never wanted to feel. 

In Will's mind, feeling indifferent made him no better than the killer.

He had never been indifferent to the horrors he'd seen, and he didn't want to start now. He didn't want to become a cold, unfeeling person because of the work he did. If he ended up being like that, then he'd be no better than the killers he sought to capture.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He wouldn't become just like a killer, but he would have that same cold and unfeeling indifference to their crimes that they did.

The day he started feeling that way would be the day he would refuse to do field work any more, even if his empathic ability _did_ save lives. It wasn't worth losing his own soul. Maybe it was worth that to Jack Crawford, but not to him.

He had to make the right decisions for _himself_ , not for others.

Will allowed himself a small, wintry smile at that thought. It was what Hannibal would tell him; the words echoing in his own mind sounded like Hannibal's voice.

Hannibal would tell him that he had to think of himself first, even if others thought it seemed selfish. He'd have said that Will's sense of self was more important than what others might think of him; he would drive that point home until the words rang in Will's ears.

Maybe he already had, Will mused, closing his eyes. Maybe Hannibal was trying to warn him that he could every easily lose himself by doing this kind of work.

A scene unfolded in his mind's eye, a scene of himself in a winter wonderland, walking in the woods, all around him draped in the white of new-fallen snow.

There was blood on the snow, spreading in an ever-widening pool; he stepped back from it, but it seemed to follow him, as though the blood was somehow drawn in his direction. He took one step backwards, then another, but the blood kept moving inexorably forward.

Will wanted to cry out, but the scream was stuck in his throat; there was nowhere to go, no one around to call out to. He was alone -- alone with this .... this bloodbath.

Carnage. He suddenly realized that it was all around him.

There were bodies everywhere. They were impaled on tree branches, half-buried in the frozen ground. The whiteness of the fallen snow was now marred by rapidly spreading stains of red, the brilliant color a stark contrast against the sparkling white.

He wanted to run, to hide, but there was nowhere to go. He was frozen in place; he couldn't take a step. Something held him there, unmoving, immobile.

Will knew that he would be the next victim if he didn't move; something was moving behind him, though he couldn't turn his head to see what -- or who -- it might be. He was trapped, like a rat in a maze, and his life would be forfeit if he didn't snap out of this stasis.

He would be nothing more than another spreading stain of red on white.

With a supreme effort, he wrenched himself free of whatever was holding him in place, whirling around to see what was behind him and reaching for his gun ....

.... And then his eyes opened, to show him the bloodstained sheet once again.

Will gulped, running a hand over his face. For a moment, that had seemed _so real_ \-- more real than his visions usually were. His empathy had taken him far beyond seeing a crime scene; it had shown him the possibility of his own death.

He hadn't been ready to see that, no matter that he saw blood and carnage every day in his line of work. When it involved him personally, it was too much.

He felt dizzy, disoriented; he needed to get out of here, to step outside and take a few breaths, to clear his head and cleanse himself. He had to get out of this room with his portents of death, this room where death had happened quickly and viscerally.

Will turned around, stumbling as he did so. He needed to get away from that white sheet, away from the bloodstains that almost looked accusatory.

For some reason, he wanted to go to Hannibal's house, to sink down into that chair and talk about what he'd seen in his mind today, and how it made him feel. For once, he was ready to talk about his feelings, about how terrified he was that he was now having premonitions.

Yes, talking to Hannibal would make him feel much better.

With slow, hesitant steps, Will made his way to the door of the hotel room, hoping that he could get out of here and make his way to Hannibal's house before the shaking began.


	2. Terrible Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wants Hannibal to help him make the terrifying visions in his mind go away for good.

"So, you're having visions that you think may be prophetic."

Hannibal leaned back in his chair, watching Will through narrowed eyes. "Will, you do realise that you may be jumping to the wrong conclusions."

Will nodded slowly, releasing a pent-up breath. "Yes, I know that," he answered, his voice very low. "But then again, I might _not_ be wrong. Maybe I _am_ starting to see visions of my own death. Maybe the death I see every day is coming for me."

"Death is eventually coming for all of us, Will." Hannibal's words were slow and deliberate, his voice calm. "We can none of us stop the advancing of age and the end of our lives."

Will shook his head, frowning. "That isn't what I mean."

He took a deep breath, wishing that he could explain what he was feeling. "I know that we're all going to come to the end of our lives. This is something more .... violent."

"So you see yourself dying of a violent act, and you are afraid that you may be having visions that will turn into reality." Hannibal's voice was still calm, with no edge of worry in it. "Will, I believe that you are reading far too much into this."

But Will still shook his head, feeling frustrated that he couldn't make Hannibal understand the horror of what he had seen in that vision, the urgency of what he felt.

"Do you feel that someone could be after you, someone who intends you harm?" Now Hannibal leaned a bit towards him, a tone worry lacing through his words. "Will, if you honestly feel that, then you should talk to Jack about having some protection."

Will sighed softly; he had known that Hannibal would come up with that solution, the easy one. "I've thought about that. But if somebody wants to get to me that badly, then they will."

He hated hearing the words even as they came out of his own mouth.

Thinking that someone could want to kill him, to end his life, was terrifying. He had faced down murderers before, of course. It was part of the nature of his work; he came into close contact with killers and horrible people every day when he was in the field.

And he saw the aftermath of what they'd done, as well, he thought with a shudder. It was never something that he liked dealing with, but again, it was part of his work.

He just didn't want to think of that rage, that murderous intent, turned on _him_. But being who and what he was put him in the line of fire, and he had always known that. He was surprised that no killer had targeted him long before this.

 _If_ he was even being made a target, he thought with a sigh.

Maybe this was all in his own mind. Maybe he was just being paranoid, and what he'd seen in his mind was nothing more than a terrible vision.

But somehow, it had felt like much more than that. It had seemed that he was caught in the crosshairs, that someone was watching him and planning his demise. He had almost _felt_ cold breath on the back of his neck; he'd felt that someone was watching, waiting ....

WIll took a deep breath, pulling his mind back from the path that it had gone meandering down. He wasn't out there in the field right now; he wasn't working.

He was sitting here talking to Hannibal, and nothing was coming after him. For the moment, he was safe, in a place where he felt comfortable.

This was the time for him to analyze what he'd seen, and to try to figure out what it might mean. This was the time for him to reach out to Hannibal for help, not to push away all of his ideas and try to hide within his own mind. He couldn't keep doing that.

He had to let the people close to him help him, and for something like this, Hannibal, with his knowledge of psychiatry, was probably the best person to turn to for that help.

He had to open himself up, to _listen_.

"Will, worrying about this will do you no good," Hannibal told him, his voice more gentle than it usually was. "You don't need to lose any more sleep. I know that you have a hard enough time battling insomnia as it is, and this is only going to make things worse."

Will nodded reluctantly, sighing as he did so. "You're right about that. It's been getting harder and harder to fall asleep lately, and this isn't helping."

"A part of you does not want to fall asleep because you don't want to see your own death in your dreams," Hannibal told him, sounding more brisk and businesslike now. "So what you and I have to do is get to the bottom of these visions and find out why you are having them."

"I'd like to banish them for good," Will said, his voice very low, barely a whisper.

"We both would," Hannibal said, his tone soothing. He leaned forward, reaching out to put a hand on Will's knee. "Together, we can banish those visions, Will."

Will wasn't so sure of that; he was positive that it would take more than talking with Hannibal, opening up about his fears, to banish a vision that had come to him so suddenly and unexpectedly. He had a feeling that it was going to have a hold on him for a long time.

But Hannibal seemed to believe that the two of them, working together, could make it vanish, and if he was going to be positive about it, then Will would give it a try, too.

"Can you help me get rid of it?" He looked directly into those fathomless dark eyes, wishing that he could see behind them. He knew that Hannibal was capable of reading his own emotions in his blue eyes like a book, but he couldn't see into Hannibal's mind.

But then, he wasn't a trained psychiatrist. He didn't know what to look for. The only time he could see into another's mind was through his own peculiar gift.

A gift that had long since turned into more of a curse.

He didn't want to close his eyes when he went to bed tonight; if he did, he knew that he would see himself, lying under a white sheet, still and cold, covered with blood. He would see his own corpse, his own death, and nothing he could do would stop death from coming for him.

Will was sure that he would see that terrible vision even in his dreams, and that his mind would take it even further, creating new horrors to jolt him awake.

There was nothing he could do to stop them, nothing that Hannibal could do. He didn't really feel better now that he had talked to Hannibal; his psychiatrist's solutions to the problem seemed too pat, too easy. He didn't think the visions would disappear that easily.

Or maybe Hannibal didn't think it would be easy, either.

"So what do you think, Hannibal?" he asked, his voice still very soft. "Do you think I can get rid of these visions, and keep them from taking over my life?"

Hannibal nodded, his voice gentle when he spoke. "Yes, Will, I believe that you can. It won't be easy for you to do, but I believe that you have the strength to conquer your fears. And you know, that's all this is. It is a manifestation of what you fear most."

Will nodded, taking a deep breath before he spoke again. "Then I'll work on it. Just tell me what you think I should do, and I'll try my best."

He was rewarded with a smile, one that made his heart surge.

Hannibal believed in him. Hannibal thought that he could do this, even when he himself had his doubts about his own inner strength. There was someone out there who thought he was strong and capable, even when his own faith in himself faltered.

Hannibal would help him, and together, they would make this terrible vision cease to exist.


	3. Insidious Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will hates the weakness that the terrifying visions of his own death makes him feel.

Will sat bolt upright in bed, a scream frozen in his throat.

He'd seen that horrific vision of himself again, at a crime scene -- but this time, _he_ was the victim, lying bloody and lifeless under a white sheet.

It was terrifying to think that he could see his own death, to believe that these dreams -- or visions, or whatever they were -- could be premonitions of what was going to happen to him. And even _more_ terrifying was that he didn't know how his death had occurred.

Had he been murdered by one of the serial killers he was trying to catch? Or had it been some more insidious crime, some other reason for his death?

Will wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know the answers.

He took one deep breath, then another, trying to calm himself down. It had obviously only been a dream; he was here in his own bed, safe and whole. He wasn't dead.

But how much longer would it be before he was facing that death? How much longer did he have before the visions started closing in on him, and he started seeing his own death more and more often, until it finally happened with him none the wiser as to why?

He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart beating there. The weakness that had overtaken him was diminishing now, though he still felt shaken.

He'd thought that talking with Hannibal about those visions would help, and in a way, it had. But there were still the long nights to get through.

The nights brought horrible dreams, and the return of those visions. Only now, they were worse than ever. In his dreams, those visions were magnified, growing to a point where they seemed more reality than dream, even after he'd awakened from them.

Talking about them hadn't helped. It had only seemed to make them worse, and to make him more sure than ever that they were in some way prophetic.

Will shuddered at that thought, but he couldn't push it away.

He didn't want to think of himself as a victim. It would undermine his confidence, get in the way of everything he did in respect to his job.

He couldn't afford to see himself in that light. He couldn't let this insidious weakness take him over, couldn't let it sap his strength -- or his courage. If he did, then the darkness would win; it would creep up on him inch by inch, slowly, until it was in a position to swallow him whole.

Will rubbed his hand over his face, wishing that he could banish that weakness with just this one simple movement, that he could push the visions away.

But he knew that it would take much more than one small gesture to accomplish such a feat.


	4. Justified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is gratified to realize that Hannibal believes in him, even when he doesn't have much faith in himself.

"So you saw the same vision again?" Hannibal asked, concern in his voice.

Will nodded, swallowing hard. "It's coming to me more often now. And it gets bloodier every time. Not just me dead under a sheet, but covered with blood."

It was a vision that he never wanted to see again, one that unnerved him each time it played out before his mind's eye. It was getting worse with time; in the last dream that had jolted him awake, there had been stab wounds all over his naked body.

There had been blood. So much blood, and all of it his. He had been lifeless, his body merely a husk that had once held all that he was.

He couldn't stop an involuntary shudder.

"Will." Hannibal was leaning towards him, his dark eyes fixed on Will's face. "You are not seeing your own death. This is _not_ a premonition."

"How do you know that?" Will asked, unable to stop his voice from rising. He could feel panic rising in him as well, a panic that he couldn't hold back. It was ridiculous to feel this way, but it had been building for a while now, and it was beginning to break its bounds.

The panic was going to overtake him, and he was going to have a breakdown, right here in front of the man who was his psychiatrist.

Well, at least he was in the right place for a breakdown, with the right person, he thought. There wasn't any better place to be when it happened than with his shrink.

Surprisingly, the thought brought a semblance of calm to him, and he was able to take one deep breath, then another. If he _did_ have a panic attack, Hannibal would be here to stop it. Hannibal would know how to deal with it, and he'd make everything better.

For the moment, he was putting himself into Hannibal's hands. He was trusting this man to guide him, to help him step back from a dangerous ledge.

He was letting Hannibal take the reins.

That wasn't easy for him, letting someone else take control. But in this case, he didn't feel that he had a choice. Hannibal would know what to do.

"I know," Hannibal said simply, drawing him out of his thoughts. "I know, Will, because I don't believe that you are going to succumb to that sort of attempt on your life. You would fight back, and I know you well enough to believe that you would be the victor."

Will had to smile a little at those words. No matter what he might think of himself and his capabilities, this man believed in him. It gave him a surge of strength.

He would just have to hope that such a belief was justified.


	5. Look To the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will didn't know just what he expected from Hannibal, but it certainly wasn't this.

"You are concentrating far too much on the darkness you see, Will," Hannibal told him. "You should try to focus on more on the positive aspects of your life."

Will almost wanted to laugh at those words.

What positive aspects? he asked himself. At the moment, it felt as though the only good thing about his life was the fact that he enjoyed teaching. 

More and more, he was dreading the days when he was out of the classroom and working in the field. He hated viewing those bodies, hated seeing face-to-face the fact that they hadn't been able to save this person, that a life had been brutally taken.

And it seemed that each crime scene only got worse. Each scene was more bloody, each death even more horrific. He couldn't take it any more.

He was tired of seeing death all around him, tired of what he saw during the day spilling over into all of his dreams, robbing him of sleep. He was tired of always being the one who was expected to somehow be able to miraculous "fix" what had happened.

He couldn't fix it. He couldn't bring those people back. All he could do was try to catch whoever had been responsible for those deaths.

How long would people think that was good enough?

It wasn't good enough, Will told himself flatly. Not for Jack, and not for him. Every time he was at a crime scene and saw another body, he didn't just want to catch the person responsible and put them behind bars. He wanted to bring that life back.

Which, of course, was something he couldn't do. He needed to accept that fact, but something in him cried out against the injustice of it.

"You have many positive things going on in your life," Hannibal continued, bringing Will out of his thoughts and back to the present moment. Those dark eyes bored into his, as though they were seeing through him. "I would like to think that _I_ am one of those things."

Will was visibly startled by Hannibal's words.

Was Hannibal hinting at something? Did he want them to be more than simply doctor and patient, more than just friends? Will didn't think that was possible.

Even though he had what he considered an uneasy friendship with this man, something in the back of his mind told him not to trust Hannibal completely. He had a kind of sixth sense about these things; he didn't feel entirely comfortable around his psychiatrist.

He always held things back from Hannibal, rather than telling him all that was in his mind. He felt that those things could be used against his in the future if he did.

And that was a risk he wasn't willing to take.

Will didn't know just where his mistrust came from; he only knew that it was there, that it existed, and that he wasn't ready to let go of it.

He didn't think he could. He couldn't make himself trust Hannibal; trust had to be _earned_ , it wasn't something that could be demanded, or forced from a person. If he was going to give his trust, he would have to come to that point himself, in his own time.

He really didn't think that he would. There was something in him that pulled back from Hannibal, that told him it wasn't safe to place his trust here.

He didn't know why he felt that way. Certainly Hannibal had given him no reason for it. But he knew from past experience that he should always listen to his instincts.

That was exactly what he intended to do. If that voice in the back of his mind was screaming at him, then he was going to heed it. He didn't care if it made people angry; they couldn't insist that he trust them when he knew in some way that he shouldn't.

If Hannibal was asking for his trust, he had to know that it wouldn't be freely given, not at this early stage of their relationship, friendship, whatever one wanted to call it.

Hannibal was speaking again; Will had to force himself to pay attention to the other man's words.

"There is darkness in your life, Will, that is obvious," Hannibal was saying. "You see that darkness every day in your work. But there is also a great deal of light."

Was Hannibal referring to himself as that light? Will wanted to snort and shake his head, but that would be hurtful to Hannibal, if he was indeed saying what Will thought he was. It would be horribly rude of him, and somehow, that reaction didn't seem quite right.

"You need to look to the light, Will, rather than always focusing on the darkness," Hannibal continued. "I know that it isn't always easy, but you must try to do that."

Was he kidding? Did he know what he was saying?

He couldn't expect Will to just hand over his trust, to just be able to look at the proverbial silver lining when so much darkness surrounded him. He _tried_ to look on the bright side as much as he could, really he did. But sometimes, it just wasn't possible.

If Hannibal expected him to always be able to look to the light, then he was asking for too much. Yes, he could see light at times, but sometimes it didn't break through the darkness.

Agitated, Will rose to his feet, starting to pace. "It's almost impossible to see that light sometimes. When I have those dreams ,and they get increasingly worse, the light disappears. I'm groping for it, trying to find it, but it doesn't always shine through for me."

Hannibal nodded, watching Will as he walked about the room.

"I understand that, Will," he said, his voice very soft, very patient. "But perhaps you aren't looking for that light in the right place. Perhaps you need to widen your vision."

There it was again -- words that Will couldn't help but see as a subtle hint of some sort. Was Hannibal daring to suggest that _he_ was the light that Will should look towards? He wanted to ask just what those words meant, but a part of him was afraid to do so.

He stopped by the window, looking out into the garden at the back of the house. It was just starting to spring into bloom, buds popping up in all kinds of colors.

Was this the sort of light that Hannibal meant? Did the other man mean to encourage him to look at all of the beauty in the world that he lived in, the miracles that surrounded him on a daily basis, rather than always focusing his attention on the dark side?

He tried to do that, every time he went for a walk in the wood around his house, or went fishing, or simply sat outside enjoying the open air.

Or maybe that wasn't what Hannibal meant at all.

It startled him to feel Hannibal suddenly standing right behind him; he realized that the other man was so close he could feel warm breath on his neck.

The sensation made Will's body stiffen for a moment; he was paralyzed, unsure of what to do or say, a kind of fear holding him in place. What was Hannibal _doing_? Did he realize just how close he was? Did he mean to be so close, or was it an unconscious movement?

Slowly, he turned until he was facing Hannibal, gazing into those dark eyes. He wasn't sure what he could see written there, but it definitely wasn't light.

It was darkness. And fire. And .... and _desire_.

Before Will had a chance to register just what that might mean, Hannibal's hands were on either side of his face -- and then those lips were on his.


	6. Emotional Tangle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will isn't sure how to handle the aftermath of Hannibal's unexpected kiss.

He wasn't ready for this.

The kiss, the embrace, the feelings that threatened to swirl to the surface -- they were all too much. He wasn't ready to handle them, not yet.

His emotions were so tangled when it came to Hannibal that he wasn't sure of just what he wanted. Did he want a relationship with this man? A part of him did, but another part of him pulled away, unsure as to whether he should allow himself to trust that fully.

Something in him didn't trust Hannibal and never would. Will didn't know why that was, but he knew that he would do well to listen to his instincts.

Why didn't he trust Hannibal? He'd been given no reason not to.

But yet, there was something within him that warned him to be cautious, telling him that Hannibal wasn't all that he seemed, that he had dark secrets.

Will didn't want to know what those secrets were. He didn't want to delve deeply into who Hannibal was, into his background, his reasons for saying and doing things. He didn't want to get that close. He wanted to back away, to keep this man at arm's length.

At least, that was what his conscious mind told him to do. Another part of him, a part that he didn't think he could keep under control, wanted something very different.

A part of him wanted Hannibal to take him, to lead him upstairs, strip off his clothes, lay him down on the bed, and do whatever he wanted. A part of him wanted to be taken, to be overwhelmed, to let Hannibal take control of him and have his way.

Even as the thought rushed through his mind, Will pushed it away. No, that _wasn't_ what he wanted. He wasn't ready for that, not in any way.

And he never would be. He was sure of that.

He wasn't ready to let _anyone_ take control of his body that way. He couldn't give himself so easily, couldn't let someone else take the reins.

That wasn't who he was. He couldn't simply throw caution to the winds and abandon himself to passion, no matter how strong it might be at the moment, no matter what he might be feeling at the moment. He wasn't built that way. He had too many walls put up.

Those walls weren't going to come tumbling down any time soon. And his emotions were far too much of a tangled mess to sort through them quickly.

He couldn't yield to this kiss. He couldn't give in.

He pulled away, out of Hannibal's embrace, away from the kiss, his blue eyes wide with shock -- and not a little fear. He backed away, spreading his hands.

"Wh-what are you doing, Hannibal?" His voice sounded breathy, more high-pitched than usual, even a little squeaky. He had to stop for a moment to catch his breath, to try and put his barriers back into place. "I didn't ask for that. You had no right --"

Hannibal was shaking his head, holding up his hands in front of him. "I'm sorry, Will. I meant no disrespect. I seem to have simply read you wrong, that's all."

"Yeah, you did," Will muttered, turning away from the other man, not willing to face him. He didn't want Hannibal to read anything in his expression.

Had he been wrong to pull away from that embrace? Was he being stupid? Should he listen to the part of himself that urged him to simply give in, to let Hannibal do what he wanted and finally be able to discover all the feelings he'd always held himself back from?

He'd never experienced those sorts of feelings with anybody; why shouldn't Hannibal be the first person that he allowed to bring them to the forefront?

Because Hannibal was his psychiatrist, that was why.

It was _wrong_ for him to feel this way. It had nothing to do with the fact that Hannibal was a man; Will had long ago accepted that he was more attracted to men than women.

It had everything to with the fact that he and Hannibal had a professional relationship, even though the other man merely said that they were friends, and that their psychiatric sessions weren't anything more than one friend extending help to another.

But Will knew better. They could be accused of professional impropriety if they became involved, and that was one thing he didn't need to deal with.

Of course, Hannibal would take the brunt of any censure, not him.

The emotional tangle that he was caught up felt as though it was strangling him, cords around him pulling more tightly with every passing second.

He almost wanted to gasp for air, but he wasn't going to. He wouldn't let Hannibal know that this had in any way unnerved him, or even made him feel uncomfortable. Though he probably already knew that, given the way that Will had pulled out of his embrace.

Will could still feel that forbidden kiss burning on his lips; if he licked his lips, he would be able to taste it. He took one shaky breath, then another, fighting for equilibrium.

He hadn't expected to feel like this, not after one simple kiss. Why did Hannibal affect him in such a way? It wasn't at all what he'd expected to feel, or even _wanted_ to feel. And his emotions were mixing with physical sensations, confusing and disorienting him.

Everything was spinning out of control, and he had no idea how to make it all stop whirling around and come right again. He couldn't find the center.

Nothing was as he'd thought it would be.

"Will, I am sorry if I've offended you in any way," Hannibal said, his voice very soft. "I had no intention of doing so. I simply wanted to .... show you my feelings."

Will managed a soft laugh, shaking his head, not turning around to face the other man "I'm not offended," he choked out, wondering if that was strictly true. He wasn't entirely sure just _how_ he felt -- though he _was_ sure of what Hannibal had expected him to feel.

Maybe he _did_ feel that way. He didn't know. He couldn't be sure. He had to sit down and think about this, examine his feelings under a close scrutiny.

And even then, maybe he wouldn't be completely sure of them.

All he knew at the moment was that he wasn't prepared for this, that the emotional tangle within him was growing tighter and more complicated with every moment.

He had to get out of here. He was edging slowly towards the door, knowing that Hannibal would follow him, but unable to stop himself. He couldn't stay in this house for one moment longer, couldn't stand here and make small talk. Not after what had happened.

His hand was on the doorknob, turning it slowly. He finally looked back at Hannibal -- to see the sly smile on the other man's lips, the fire that was still apparent in his eyes.

Will opened the door, turned away, and bolted outside to safety.


	7. Destructive Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's visions have shown him his own death -- and the cause of it.

His death was right there, in front of him. He could feel it beckoning, calling to him.

Will closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head, wanting to push the vision away. But it was right there, in front of his eyes, stubbornly refusing to disintegrate.

That death had a face. It wore a face that he didn't want to see, a face that he was horrified to recognize. His death was being shown to him -- the way that it would happen, and who would be responsible for it. That death was something he didn't want to see.

Not just because it signified the end for him, but because of how it was brought about -- and who was the cause of it. He didn't want to believe the vision was true.

If it was, then _Hannibal_ would be his death.

He saw it over and over again. Hannibal smiling at him, pulling him close, then plunging a knife into his gut and twisting, rending his internal organs, tearing him apart.

He could see the crimson blood gushing out, covering his fingers where he tried desperately to hold it back, knowing that it was no use. He was going to die here, at Hannibal's hands, while his former lover walked out on him without a backward glance.

Hannibal didn't care. Hannibal wanted him dead. Hannibal had never been his friend, in spite of all that they had shared. There had never been real love between them.

He was dying, his lifeblood seeping out of him, and his love for Hannibal along with it. He was ending his life even more alone than when he had come into it.

Will's eyes snapped open, a scream coming from his throat. His hands pushed the covers back, and he sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. He raised a trembling hand to run it through his hair, taking deep gulps of air, sucking it into his lungs.

He'd been dreaming. In those dreams, he'd seen his death again -- only much more clearly than ever before, and this time, in minute, crystal-clear detail.

Hannibal would kill him. Hannibal was his ultimate end.

And somehow, somewhere in his mind, they had been _lovers_. He'd been with Hannibal in the carnal sense; and worse, he'd _loved_ him.

He could still feel the vestiges of that love clinging to him from the dream -- or was what he felt the emotion that had been growing within him since they had first met? Was he falling in love with Hannibal, and were his dreams telling him that it was a destructive love?

Will shook his head, feeling bewildered. A dream, he told himself firmly. It was only a dream. It had nothing to do with reality -- or with his feelings, whatever they were.

Though he knew that the disturbing vision would haunt him for a long time to come.


	8. Disturbing Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's dreams of his own death keep adding more unsettling elements to the mix.

Seeing his own death in his dream was getting harder and harder to deal with.

Will sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the headrest in his car, feeling the tension of the day spent at a crime scene drain out of him.

The best thing for him to do would be to go home, to eat something and try to get some rest. But he knew that he wasn't going to do that; even though he didn't have a session with Hannibal today, he felt compelled to see the other man, for some strange reason.

Was it because in that last dream, the two of them had been lovers at some point? Did that disturb him so much that he had to talk to Hannibal about it?

A wry smile twisted his lips at the thought.

Hell no, he wasn't going to talk to Hannibal about _that_. He didn't want his psychiatrist to think that he harbored any romantic feelings for him. That wouldn't be right.

Besides, it wasn't true. Or _was_ it? Will sighed again, wishing that he had some easy answer to that question. He didn't really know just _how_ he felt about Hannibal. He wasn't sure if those feelings were desire, friendship, caution, apprehension -- or a combination.

He knew that he didn't completely trust Hannibal, even though a part of him wanted to. There was just a sense of deviousness about the man that made trust difficult.

Seeing his own death over and over again was unsettling enough, but realizing that he might have feelings for the man who was his psychiatrist was even more so.

It wasn't that he didn't realize he liked men; he'd known that ever since he was a teenager. He'd never been ashamed of that fact; to him, his feelings were normal, and if he was attracted to a man, then it was just as natural as being attracted to a woman.

But being attracted to _Hannibal_ was something that he couldn't quite wrap his mind around. It would require a lot of thought to work this one out in his head.

Meanwhile, how was he going to talk to Hannibal about it? Could he even do that?

Will wasn't sure of just what he would say. Especially not since the dreams had moved into an even more disturbing realm, giving rise to new thoughts and speculations.

Could his feelings for Hannibal somehow be the cause of his death? Was he seeing his future -- becoming Hannibal's lover, and losing his life because of that relationship? The thought was not only unsettling, it was downright frightening. It wasn't something he wanted to consider.

Whatever the cause of his death would be, he didn't think he could talk about it. But he needed to talk to Hannibal, to try to work some things out in his own head.

Sighing, Will started his car, pulling out of the parking lot and heading for Hannibal's house.


	9. A Defensive Stance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Will discusses his dreams with Hannibal, his psychiatrist doesn't tell him what he wants to hear.

"Will, seeing your own death in dreams is hardly unusual," Hannibal told him.

Will stared at Hannibal as though he couldn't believe what he had just heard.

"It's unusual for _me_ ," Will retorted, feeling his temper fray around the edges. Hannibal's words so far hadn't been what he'd wanted to hear.

Hannibal seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was incredibly disturbed by these dreams; he was acting as though Will should simply brush them off and not be bothered by them, even though they became more horrific with each dream, each vision.

He couldn't stop feeling that they _were_ visions, that they were prophetic, that they were showing him his probable future as some kind of warning.

He couldn't simply push those dreams away and forget about them.

"Seeing your own death is disconcerting, I'm sure," Hannibal told him, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. "But I do not believe it is prophetic."

"Given the kind of job I have, and what I deal with every day, I believe that it _is_ ," Will shot back as he sank lower in his own chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't think I can discount anything. And I'm having these dreams almost every night now."

Too late, he realized that his posture, the crossing of his arms over his chest in an almost protective way, the stance he was taking, must look horribly defensive.

He wanted to be open to other interpretations of his dreams, but it was hard to feel that way when panic was beginning to rise in him.

It was hard to accept what Hannibal was saying when every fiber of his being screamed at Will that he had to be cautious, to be wary, that he had to watch his back every moment of every day. He couldn't simply ignore those dreams; they _meant_ something.

A little voice in the back of his head was hammering at him, telling him that if Hannibal didn't believe those dreams were prophetic visions, then perhaps he couldn't trust Hannibal.

No. He didn't want to feel that way. He _needed_ to trust someone.

And who better than his psychiatrist? But this wasn't helping anything; the two of them being at odds was only making him back away, rather than helping him to trust.

Will took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He was starting to feel even more anxious, and worse, he was feeling angry and resentful. That wasn't how he should feel about someone who was his psychiatrist, and more than that, his friend.

He had to push those feelings aside, and talk to Hannibal when his emotions weren't in such an uproar. He didn't want to lose one of the few friends he had.

"Let's change the subject," he said, trying to keep his voice calm and controlled.

If they didn't walk about something else, then he would say something he'd regret.


	10. Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is determined to stop going to Hannibal with every little problem he has.

Will almost cursed out loud as he slammed on the brakes for a red light.

What the _hell_ was he doing? Going to Hannibal's whenever he had a panic attack over any little problem wasn't going to do him any good. It was only going to make him dependent on someone else, when he shouldn't be depending on anyone but himself.

He couldn't let himself be that weak. He couldn't let anyone else guide him, or his decisions.

He had to stop looking to Hannibal for encouragement or approval. He had to stop thinking that Hannibal was going to be a lifeline. He had to start being his own person, just as he'd been before Hannibal had come into his life.

That sounded a lot easier in theory than it actually was to put into motion.

When the light turned green again, he pressed the gas pedal, turning the next corner and pulling into a parking space. He gripped the steering wheel, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

Being too dependent on Hannibal, on _anyone_ else, was emotional suicide for him. He wasn't going to do it.

After a few moments, he started the car again, put it back in gear, and drove around the block -- only this time, when he came back out onto the main street, he turned back towards Wolf Trap and home, rather than towards the city of Baltimore.

Stop the dependency, he reiterated to himself. It wasn't healthy, and it wasn't what he wanted.

It took him several long moments to realize that he was clutching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles had gone white.


	11. Decompression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is finding that his ways of dealing with the stress he's under are dwindling rapidly.

He needed to relax, to decompress. To take his mind off everything around him.

Will sighed softly as he stared out at the water of the lake, wishing that he'd brought his fishing gear along with him. It was his main way of relaxing.

Fishing helped him to get his mind off everything in his life; he would simply cast out the line and let his mind wander, clear it of all the things that disturbed him. It was the only way lately that he could let himself drift, cut himself off from all of his worries.

But today, he hadn't thought about doing that. He had only wanted to take a walk, to think about things, to get away from the house and the four walls that hemmed him in.

He needed this time at home to decompress, to get away from everything. But it felt that lately, even the home in the middle of the woods didn't give him the relaxation he needed. It was just another place for him to think, for him to stress out.

His home had always given him a sense of peace, but now, it almost felt as though his problems and all of his worries followed him there and didn't leave.

Will's mouth twisted in a wry smile at the thought.

Hannibal would tell him that he couldn't run from his problems, and advise him to try to fix them one step at a time, rather than look for an escape from them.

But how was he supposed to turn and face his problems, when they felt as if they loomed above him, ready to rend him limb from limb with teeth and claws? They seemed far too big to take on at the moment; it was easier to try to push them away.

If only those disturbing visions would stop coming to him in his dreams, visions of himself covered in blood, reduced to nothing more than a statistic.

If only he could stop envisioning himself as a victim.

How many times had he tried to tell himself that those visions weren't prophetic, that he wasn't seeing his own death spelled out in front of him?

Everyone tried to tell him that, Will thought with a sigh. Well, not _everyone_ \-- he hadn't told many people about those dreams. At this point, he'd really only told Hannibal, though he couldn't be sure if the other man hadn't told Jack, as well.

Maybe he should talk to Jack; maybe that would take some of the pressure away and make him feel a bit better. Maybe his boss should know how he was feeling.

But if Jack _did_ know how he was feeling, it wouldn't really make a difference, Will thought sourly, kicking a rock into the water and watching the resultant ripples.

Jack expected him to keep going indefinitely, like the Energizer Bunny with new batteries. He didn't seem to understand that getting inside the minds of killers came with a price -- and that Will was the only person who had to pay that price.

 _He_ was the one who had to deal with the aftereffects. _He_ was the one who was starting to break down, slowly but surely.

Nobody gave a damn about how his work affected him.

The only person who actually seemed to care what Hannibal, and Will couldn't help but wonder why. Was it because Hannibal considered him a friend, or was it for some other reason?

Did Hannibal really see him as a friend, or just as some kind of experiment, someone who had an unusual ability that he wanted to know more about? Did Hannibal care about him, or did he simply want to get into Will's head, just as Will got into the minds of killers?

That was too bizarre to even try to contemplate. Will closed his eyes, shaking his head, wishing that such a thought hadn't occurred to him.

It just made him feel more tense, more keyed-up.

Usually, coming to the lake, just sitting here and thinking, helped him to decompress. But today, it seemed that wasn't going to work in the way that it usually did.

No, all it was doing at the moment was making him feel even _more_ tense and worried. There was no way that he was going to achieve the decompression he sought today, no matter what he did. That fact was becoming obvious enough.

With a sigh, Will turned to head back to the house, his footsteps show and heavy. He felt as though he was having a hard time putting one foot in front of the other.

Was something wrong with him other than just being tense about those disturbing dreams that felt more like visions? he asked himself. Was there something going on in his mind that even he didn't know about, something that could be the precursor of an illness?

He pushed that thought aside, too, not wanting to entertain it. He didn't need even more problems to worry and puzzle over. He was stressed enough already.

And he was rapidly running out of ways to decompress.


	12. A Grip on Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when Will thinks that his visions of his future have stopped, they come back to haunt him.

He hated crime scenes. He hated the _feel_ of them.

But it was part of his job to go to crime scenes and see them through the killer's eyes. He had no choice in the matter, Will told himself.

He might hate this part of what he did, but it saved lives. And if he could do that, if he could save the lives of people who might fall victim in the future by catching this killer before he got to them, then it was worth the discomfort he felt.

This was what he did, and he wasn't going to turn away from it. If his singular talent could help to catch a killer, then it was his duty to use that talent.

Still, seeing a blood-soaked sheet draped over the body on the bed made his stomach turn queasily. As much as he wanted to believe that it was the coppery scent of the blood that made him feel slightly sick, Will knew that it was something more than that.

He didn't want to pull back that sheet and see the face of the person lying under it. All too often lately, he had seen his _own_ face there.

It was only an illusion, but it was one that shook him to his core.

Why was he seeing himself in the faces of these victims? Why was his subconscious telling him that _he_ was going to become one of them?

He didn't want to believe that he was having premonitions of his own death, but the more they happened, the more it felt as though the visions were trying to tell him something. It was simply that he couldn't put together just what the message was supposed to be.

What was the universe trying to tell him? That he was going to meet his death if he kept doing this? That he needed to get out if he wanted to save himself?

Whatever the message was, he couldn't manage to piece if together, though he'd thought long and hard about it. Maybe he just needed someone to look at it through new eyes, to give him another opinion about what it could be.

Hannibal didn't seem to feel that his life was in danger. Perhaps he should just listen to what the other man had to say, and ignore the visions.

Or, as Hannibal said, interpret them in a different way.

Though that was more easily said than done, he thought, wincing as he walked into the bedroom and saw the sheet-draped body. Especially when he saw them nearly every day.

When this had started, he didn't see his face on every victim at every crime scene. Now, he did. It was becoming more and more disconcerting.

It was something he'd never get used to, something that he didn't _want_ to get used to. And it was becoming harder and harder to pull back the shrouds over the bodies, because he knew what he would see even before he did so.

He wouldn't see the actual bodies lying there, with their wounds exposed. He would see himself, his own death, staring him directly in the face.

The first few times it had happened, it was as though his heart had frozen in his chest, its beating stopped for a few moments as he tried to assimilate what he was seeing.

Now, that feeling of his heart seizing up was even worse; every time he saw his own face on the victim he was looking at, it was as though ice water flowed through his veins instead of warm blood, and he wondered if he would ever feel warmth again.

But he couldn't stop working; he had to keep doing this, had to keep trying to find justice for these people. If he didn't, then he would be doing the world a disservice.

It didn't matter how much this got to him. It was only a vision, Will told himself firmly. It wasn't the truth. He wasn't going to become a victim. Not if he was careful, and stayed wary.

He couldn't let this turn him away from his work.

With a trembling hand, he reached out to pull the sheet back from the victim's face -- and saw an ordinary-looking man lying there, middle-aged, balding, innocuous.

This person didn't have his face. For once, he wasn't seeing his own death under this sheet; he was seeing the victim as he really was. Will sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving to whatever gods might be watching over him, then closed his eyes and concentrated.

He saw this man's death through his own eyes, saw what the killer had done to him, felt the calmness that centered around the killer as he carried out his gruesome business.

When he opened his eyes a few moments later, he felt dazed and a little confused, but he knew where he was and what he was doing. He was at a crime scene, and he had just returned from his usual trip into a killer's mind. It was what he always did.

And when he looked down at the victim, he found himself staring into his own face, his blue eyes open and accusing. _Why did you let him do this to me?_

Will stumbled back, suppressing the cry that rose to his lips.

He hadn't wanted to see this, hadn't thought that he would. He had been so sure when he'd first pulled back that sheet and hadn't see his face that it wouldn't happen this time.

He blinked once, twice -- then the vision was gone, and the victim was as he should be, a balding man with horrific slash wounds all over his torso and his jugular vein cut. He didn't have Will's face; he wasn't Will. He was just a man that Will didn't know.

A man that he had never seen before. Not himself. It wasn't him lying there in a pool of viscous blood; it wasn't him who was cold and dead and .... _gone_.

The visions were coming back, crowding in again, making bile rise in his throat. If he didn't get out of here, he was going to embarrass himself by being sick at a crime scene. He'd never done that before, not even when he had first started on the police force.

He had to get out of here. Putting a hand over his mouth, Will stumbled towards the door, leaving the room and going outside as quickly as he could.

Where he immediately leaned over the rosebushes and was sick.

He felt a hand on his back, and heard Jack Crawford's voice dimly. "Will, I think you need to go home and rest. This is obviously getting to you."

Jack was only noticing that _now_? Will thought sourly. All this time he'd been losing little pieces of himself, then dealing with these terrifying visions of his future -- _possible_ future, he reminded himself sternly -- and only now did Jack seem to give a damn.

But he only nodded in agreement, his voice a mere croak of sound when he spoke. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea. I've been working too hard lately."

Without another word, he headed for his car, pulling out his keys and slipping inside. He closed his eyes for a moment as he rested his head against the headrest; he knew that he wasn't going home, at least not yet. There was somewhere else he needed to go first.

He needed to talk to Hannibal about this latest vision. Hannibal was the only person who ever seemed to offer any kind of rational explanations.

Maybe then he'd feel better, and have more of a grip on reality than he did at the moment.


	13. On the Verge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will feels that he's on the verge of falling apart, and that having another vision of himself as a victim at a crime scene will send him over the edge.

"I can't deal with seeing that again."

Will's voice was very low, barely more than a whisper. He didn't look over at Hannibal; he didn't need to so much as glance at the other man to know what he would see if he looked up.

Hannibal was sitting directly across from him, his hands in his lap, his legs crossed, his intense gaze focused on Will. There was a slight furrow between his brows, as though he was thinking hard, concentrating on what Will had just told him.

"Will, your empathy is playing tricks on you," he said at last, shaking his head. "You have to realise that the visions you're seeing are _not_ premonitions of your own death. Rather, I think that they are visions of yourself in the same place as your victims. You are empathizing with them far too much."

"Then how do I stop myself from doing it?" Will asked, his voice hoarse. "I cant take seeing those visions any more, Hannibal. It's getting to be too much for me."

He took a deep breath, continuing in a whisper. "I feel like if I see myself lying there dead in a pool of blood on more time, I'll lose it. I'll go completely off my rocker, and I don't know if I can come back from that."

Hannibal shook his head, his brow furrowing again.

"Will, you aren't giving yourself enough credit," he said, his voice softer now. "You are a much stronger person than you think you are. This is not going to destroy you."

"How do you know that?" For some reason, Will felt unaccountably irritated by Hannibal's words. "You barely know me. You might have been talking to me for a while, but you don't know what I'm really like."

Hannibal shook his head, a small smile curving his lips. "That's where you are wrong, Will," he said, his voice still soft, almost a murmur. "I know you quite well by now. We have been talking about your psyche, about your feelings. I believe that I know you better than most people do."

Will had to concede the truth in those words. Hannibal _did_ know him better than most, even more so than people who had known him for years, like Jack Crawford.

But then, Jack had never taken the time to get to know him. Hannibal had. Jack didn't really want to get inside his head, to find out what made him tick, to know how he felt. Jack just wanted him to solve crimes.

Jack wanted a pet freak that he could call a friend. But he didn't want to _know_ that person.

Maybe that was why he always came to Hannibal when he felt as though he might be on the verge of falling apart. Because this man knew him better than anyone, and could offer him insights.

But now, there didn't seem to be any insight that anyone could give him. No one else saw the visions he did; no one else felt the panic that rendered him speechless, made it difficult for him to breathe. No one else knew what this felt like, because no one else had experienced it along with him.

He wouldn't want anyone to experience that feeling, Will told himself. It was horrible, gazing down at a dead body and seeing his own face there instead of the actual victim's features.

Nobody should have to see that and feel what he did. He wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy; it was a feeling that no human being should have to deal with.

So why was it being forced on _him_? Was it his empathy, trying to tell him that if he kept doing this job, he would find that he would end up being one of the victims, rather than the investigator? Or was it his empathy telling him that he needed to back away for other reasons, such as the one that Hannibal had just given him?

It made sense, Will told himself, turning Hannibal's words over and over in his mind. His empathy _could_ be warning him to back away, telling him that he was feeling too much for these victims.

How was he supposed to turn off his emotions and _not_ feel? That was impossible.

He couldn't look at those faces and not feel for the people behind them. He couldn't help it that his emotions reached out to them, even though he knew that they were unreachable.

All he could do for them was to try and find out who had killed them, and why. Sometimes he failed at that, but sometimes he _did_ succeed. And the successes made up for the failures.

At least he thought they did. He _hoped_ they did. For every person whose death he didn't unravel, there were two whose killers he found, or at least helped to find. That had to count for something, didn't it? It had to _mean_ something, or else what he did for Jack was meaningless.

"What you do helps people, Will." Hannibal's voice broke into his thoughts, making him raise his head to look at the other man. "It helps their families to find closure."

Hannibal's voice was even softer as he continued, a question in his tone. "But does it help _you_? Or does it only give you an added burden on top of all the others that you have to carry?"

Will didn't know how to answer that question. There was really nothing that he could say.

Was Hannibal right? Was his empathy trying to tell him to distance himself more, to back away from his work as much as he could and still keep doing it? Or was it something else entirely?

Will didn't know what to think at this point. He only knew that he needed to clear his head, to stop thinking about this for a while, to try and relax. He needed to push all of this away, even if only for a brief time.

"I believe that you need to take a break from your work for Jack, Will." Hannibal's tone was brisk, businesslike. It had lost that soft, intimate timbre; Will knew that indicated that this session was nearly over, and that Hannibal wanted them back on more of a doctor-and-patient footing. "You need to ask him if you can take at least a few days off."

Will nodded slowly, wondering if Jack would let him do that, or if his boss would insist that he keep going to crime scenes and doing his job, even though he was obviously starting to burn out.

Jack would _have_ to let him have some personal time. There were no two ways about it; if he didn't take some time away from work, he was going to not only burn out, but probably drive himself insane.

"I'll see what I can do," he murmured, getting up and heading for the door. The session was over.

With his hand on the doorknob, he stopped, then turned to the other man. "Hannibal? Just _how_ am I supposed to get Jack to give me some time off? Any pointers about that?"

Hannibal had followed him into the foyer; he tilted his head to the side slightly, smiling at Will. "I believe that you know Jack and his work habits far better than I do, Will. It is up to _you_ to ask for the time; asking me obliquely to help you with that will only relieve you of the decision of whether or not to do so."

Damn. Hannibal knew him far too well, Will thought. With a nod and a murmured goodbye, he opened the door, closing it behind him as he left the house and walked slowly to his car.

Yeah, he'd get around to asking Jack for that time off. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Well, sometime.


	14. Coping Mechanisms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will doesn't know how he'll cope if he loses the empathy that's been a part of him for so long.

Maybe Hannibal was right. Maybe he just needed some time off.

It could be that these visions he was having were just the product of overwork, of seeing way too many dead bodies, of having to get into the minds of too many serial killers.

Maybe it was finally starting to take a toll on him. He'd known that it would, eventually; there was no way he could do what he did and not be affected by it.

He was finally starting to crack up, finally starting to give in to the pressures that seemed to be looming around him on a constant basis. This was what insanity looked like, Will thought, glancing into the bathroom mirror as he pushed his damp hair out of his face. 

No, he wasn't going insane. He didn't think he was that far gone yet. And if he could take a few steps back and manage to cope with all this, then he would be okay.

He still hadn't asked Jack for any time off, but he'd have to do that soon. He couldn't keep going like this; anyone could see that he was starting to unravel at the seams.

Even Jack could see that, if he'd ever bother to look.

Jack wasn't really the problem, but it still annoyed Will to think that his boss saw him as some kind of Energizer Bunny. Just put in fresh batteries, and he'd keep going and going and going.

His empathy wasn't like that, and Jack should know it. Already he could feel himself slipping when he was trying to get into a killer's mind; he never seemed to be able to make the kind of connection he used to, never seemed to quite be able to _understand_ the motivation behind the killing.

Before, he'd always been able to do that. And now that he couldn't, it frightened him. Was he losing the one thing that made him special, made him important?

He didn't care about being important. That wasn't the issue here.

He just didn't want to lose the one thing that made him able to help people, that was all. If he could no longer get into the minds of killers, then he would be useless at his job.

Oh, he'd still be a good teacher. No one could doubt that. He would still be a good profiler. He'd always been efficient at those jobs, and he could continue to do them well.

But this ability gave him an edge, gave him a way to help people that no one else had. Nobody could do what he did; nobody else could burrow into the minds of killers and find out why they did what they did, their motivations behind their crimes. It was, in effect, a shortcut to finding and catching murderers.

If he lost that, then his effectiveness as a profiler would diminish, too. He'd still be good at what he did, but he would no longer have that extra edge, that ability to go from zero to sixty so quickly.

Maybe that ability was getting to him in ways that he couldn't cope with, Will thought with a sigh. Maybe losing it would be a _good_ thing, and not a tragedy.

He had to get some coping mechanisms in place, though, to process the inevitable. If he was going to slowly lose his empathic ability, then he'd be saying goodbye to something that had been a part of him for a long time, and it would be wrenching to lose it, as much as he'd sometimes hated what he was.

He'd hated his empathy when he was younger because he'd felt that it made him a freak, set him apart. He'd resented what he was for most of his life.

It was only when he'd realized that he could use his empathy to help people that he had reluctantly started to embrace it, even though he had to admit that he still resented being set apart from everyone else because of it.

But at the same time, that ability had gone a long way to making him the person he now was.

Now, it had become such an ingrained part of him, and of the job that he did, that the thought of losing it was terrifying. Funny, that. It seemed as though the tables had completely turned.

He had wanted to lose his empathy for so long, cursing it, hating it for so many years. Now that he was finally starting to become comfortable with it, to feel that it was a part of him that actually made a difference and did some good, he was worried about having it slip away from him.

Well, at this point, he needed to develop some coping mechanisms, just in case that ability _did_ did slip away, and he had to learn to deal with not having that part of himself any more.

And he had no idea how to put those coping mechanisms into place.

He didn't even have any idea what kind of mechanism he would use to cope if his empathy suddenly disappeared. He would just have to wait and see what happened, and see how he dealt with it.

Talking to Hannibal would really be the only thing he could do. Somehow, he couldn't help thinking that Hannibal would be able to hold out some hope to him, give him a rock to cling to.

Hannibal seemed to be his rock in a lot of ways lately, and Will couldn't help wondering if that was good for him. For a person who had always made it a point never to let anyone get too close to him, or to see into his heart and soul, he was letting Hannibal become dangerously .... _necessary_.

But it felt as though Hannibal was the only person who was shining a light into the darkness, or holding out a hand to him when he most needed it. Hannibal was the only one who was _there_.

As long as he was there, then Will was going to keep turning to him. He had nowhere else to go, no one else to talk to -- and he wasn't willing to give up the one coping mechanism that seemed to work for him.

Even if it turned out that relying on Hannibal only gave him one more issue that he had to cope with.


	15. Road To Nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is determined to find out the cause of what he thinks are his prophetic visions.

Maybe Hannibal was right. Maybe he _did_ need some time off.

Will sighed, leaning back in his desk chair. His last class had been over half an hour ago; he could pick up the essays he'd have to read and grade over the weekend, and go home.

But he didn't want to leave the safety of his classroom, for some reason. He didn't know why, but this was starting to feel like the only place where he was comfortable.

Even being in his own home made him nervous and jumpy these days. He always expected to have more visions of himself lying dead and cold under a bloodstained sheet when he was at home; he didn't want to drift off to sleep, or even let himself daydream, because of that.

It was probably a ridiculous fear; after all, the visions had only seemed to assail him thus far when he was at a crime scene, working actively on a case. But he couldn't be too careful.

He didn't want to keep having those visions. He wanted them to disappear for good, to suddenly go away and leave him in peace. But that wasn't likely to happen.

He had those visions for a _reason_. And they still seemed like premonitions to him.

They weren't going to simply disappear. They would keep happening until he knew what the reason for them was, he was sure of it. They wouldn't leave him alone.

What if he never found out why he had them? The thought of having those visions for the rest of his life made a cold chill run down Will's spine; the last thing he wanted was to see himself as a corpse every time he was at a crime scene doing his job. That would be unbearable.

And it would also make it impossible to keep doing his job. Eventually, he wouldn't be able to face those visions any longer. They would break him.

He'd be useless at his job, unable to keep making a difference.

Panic rose in him at the thought. The last thing he wanted was to feel that he could no longer do what he was meant to, that he could no longer use his ability to help people.

Maybe it didn't really help, Will thought bitterly. After all, the people he dealt with were already dead when they first came to his attention. Maybe he was simply striding on a treadmill, on an endless road to nowhere that never really helped anyone. Maybe he was just wasting his time.

No, that wasn't true, he told himself firmly. He _did_ help people. He helped the families of those victims get the closure they needed. He did some good in the world.

He wanted to keep doing that good. He wanted to keep helping people as much as he could. That was why he'd become a cop, and then joined the FBI.

He'd always wanted to make a difference, to bring some good into the world. What better way to do that then by going after criminals, catching them and bringing them to justice? And with his singular ability, he was better equipped to do that than most people ever could be.

It didn't matter that a lot of people thought of him as being some kind of freak. He'd long ago learned to brush off those kinds of attitudes. Those people didn't know him. They didn't matter.

But it _did_ hurt when people who knew him saw him in that light.

He should expect that, though, Will thought with another soft sigh. The people who knew him were all too aware of his foibles and failings. They saw him for who he was.

Did everyone who knew him think that he was traveling on a road to nowhere, that if his ability deserted him he would be good for nothing? Of course not, Will admonished himself. Everyone who worked with him knew that he was a good teacher. He wouldn't be completely useless without his empathy.

Still, it was disconcerting to think of what his life might be like without it. And it was a part of him that he'd grown used to, even as he decried it in some ways.

Though if it was his empathy that was causing him to have these terrifying visions ....

No, it couldn't be that, Will told himself. If those frightening visions of his own death were caused by his empathy, they would have started happening a long time ago.

Wouldn't they? Or had they simply been building up in his mind, waiting to jump out at him and attack him when he was feeling doubtful about his ability?

He wanted to know why those visions had suddenly begun, why they refused to stop, and why they bothered him so much. For some odd reason, he couldn't simply write them off as being by-products of the job that he did; they felt as if they were premonitions, a kind of warning.

Will wouldn't be surprised if someone wanted him dead. He'd put a lot of criminals behind bars; he didn't doubt that if they got out, they'd be gunning for him.

But this seemed to go far beyond that. This was a warning that seemed to become more dire each time it happened, as if there were walls closing in on him, as if he didn't have much time left.

He shuddered again, suddenly feeling cold and very much alone.

One thing was for sure, he told himself firmly. He had to get to the bottom of this, find out just _why_ these visions had suddenly begun to plague him.

He had to stop spinning his wheels on the road to nowhere. He had to stand up to these visions he was having, find out just why they were coming to him, and then manage to banish them forever. He could never get out from under their thumb if he kept being terrorized by them. That had to stop.

Taking a deep breath, Will pushed back his chair and got to his feet, gathering the essays together and putting them into his messenger bag to take home with him. He'd grade them tonight.

Maybe they would help him forget about his disturbing visions, at least for a little while.


	16. Stumbling in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blinding headaches he's been having lately make Will feel as though he's too ill to think clearly.

His head was on fire.

Will wanted to clutch his head and scream; it felt as though he was burning, as if his brain was smoldering inside his head and he needed to pour cold water over it.

It was those damned visions he'd been having, he told himself. They were finally getting to the point where they were being burned into his brain.

He should have expected that; after all, they haunted him often enough. He should have realized that at some point, they were going to be branded into his mind, becoming a part of him. It was as though they were determined to stay before his eyes, to not go away or give him any respite.

He hated those visions. He hated them with every fiber of his being, hated knowing that when he closed his eyes, he would see himself dead in some horrific manner.

That wasn't what he wanted to see every time he tried to go to sleep. It was getting to the point where he _couldn't_ sleep any more, for fear of what his mind would show him.

It wasn't just a dream here and there any more.

It was becoming an illness, one that held him in a death grip and refused to let him go. An illness not of the body, but of the mind, one that he couldn't shake off.

Or maybe it _was_ becoming an illness of the body as well, Will told himself as he reached for the bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet. These visions of his own death were giving him horrible headaches that it seemed to take him longer and longer to recover from.

How was he going to get rid of them when he didn't even know where they came from? They'd come upon him quickly, and he had no idea why they existed.

What was his mind trying to tell him?

He'd always had a very well-developed sense of self-preservation. He wouldn't have been able to survive his childhood years if he hadn't, Will told himself with a wry grimace.

All of the taunting, the threats, the people who'd thought that he was some kind of evil presence because of his empathy. He'd survived it all, and come out on the other side.

But those days had given him scars, inside and out. He'd had to defend himself more than once against children whose parents had taught them to hate anything and anyone that was considered "different," and those experiences had made him cautious about the human race.

He'd learned to take care of himself, learned to protect himself at all costs. He'd hated feeling victimized, and it was one of the reasons why he'd gone into law enforcement.

Now that he was an adult, his sense of self-preservation was even stronger, especially given the job that he had. He had to be careful, to constantly watch his back.

He'd lived with his empathy all of his life; he should be used to it by now, he told himself. He should be used to feeling that he was different. But this was the first time it had ever made him feel ill, the first time it was showing him his _own_ future, a future that chilled him to the bone.

 _Was_ it his empathy showing him these visions of his own death? Or was it something far more sinister, something that had nothing to do with his special ability?

He didn't know, and it was slowly driving him mad. Will knew that he had to find out what was behind these visions if he wanted to hold on to his sanity.

His health was in jeopardy, too, if these awful headaches were any indication.

Even when he wasn't feeling well, he could always think things through. But now, it was as though he was too ill to think, as though his brain was the part of him that had fallen ill.

Not being able to think clearly frightened him more than anything else; losing that part of himself that he knew could see any situation in a clear light was his greatest fear. He didn't want to be stumbling in the dark, feeling as though he didn't know which direction he should turn.

But it seemed that was exactly what he was doing. He was too ill for any kind of coherent thought to come through; his mind was clouded, all light obscured.

That was more terrifying than anything else he could possibly face.

Will poured himself a glass of tea, then swallowed three aspirin. If only they would make his head stop pounding, then maybe he could think clearly for a change.

Slowly, he made his way into the living room, sinking down onto the couch and stretching out. He needed to close his eyes, to fall asleep, and to _not_ dream, for once.

He needed to have one night, or at least a few hours, of peaceful, uninterrupted sleep -- one night where his dreams didn't lead him down a dark path, or make him awaken in the pre-dawn hours of the morning with his heart pounding as much as his head, a cold sweat congealing on his skin.

Closing his eyes, Will curled up on the couch, pulling the knitted afghan from the back of it to cover himself with. He seriously doubted that he would get the dreamless sleep he so desperately needed.

Those visions would more than likely follow him, forever chasing him and tapping on his shoulder, forcing themselves upon him until he wanted to scream in frustration.

They would never let him go, never leave him in peace.

All he wanted was a respite, a night of sleep that he could actually awake from feeling refreshed, as though his mind was clear and ready to think everything through rationally.

But he doubted that was what he would get. With a soft sigh, Will burrowed into the pillow, hoping that he would at least find peace for a single night.


	17. Elusive Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will believes that something is seriously wrong with him, and he wants answers that Hannibal can't -- or won't -- give.

Will watched Hannibal as the other man crossed and recrossed his legs, wondering why he looked as though he had something to say but was reluctant to say it.

He didn't like it when Hannibal was like this; it made him feel as though something he needed to know was being kept from him, that he was out of the loop.

The silence stretched out uncomfortably, just like his nerves.

Finally, Will could bear it no longer. "Tell me the truth, Hannibal," he muttered, his gaze still not meeting the other man's. "I don't like feeling like you're keeping something from me."

Hannibal shook his head slowly, frowning as he did so. "I'm not keeping anything from you that you need to know, Will," he said, his voice quiet and even. "I wouldn't do that."

"Yes, you would," Will told him, a wry smile curving his lips briefly before it disappeared again. "You've probably kept a lot from me. But I need to know, Hannibal. The headaches are getting worse. I feel like my head is on fire when they come on me. I need to know what's wrong with me."

"Will, I can't tell you what is wrong, because I don't know myself," Hannibal protested. "Believe me, if I _did_ know, I certainly wouldn't keep such information from you."

Will considered his words, wondering if Hannibal was telling the truth. He really didn't have any way of knowing, after all. He wasn't good at filtering out lies from truth, unless he was working.

And with Hannibal, it was impossible to divine his thoughts.

Why was he even trying to guess what Hannibal might be thinking? He knew that there was no way he was going to find a route into this man's mind.

If Hannibal didn't want to reveal his thoughts, then there was no use trying to guess them. Will already knew that this man could be the most enigmatic person he'd ever met; Hannibal was good at dissembling, at hiding anything that he didn't want anyone else to know.

It was too frustrating to play a game of twenty questions, when he only knew that Hannibal would sidestep anything he might ask. He would always deflect one question with another.

"If you're ever going to tell me anything when you finally know it," he said quietly, "I'd like the truth. You don't have to candy-coat anything for me, Hannibal."

"I wouldn't do that, Will," Hannibal told him gravely. "If I knew anything about your condition, then I would tell you, and I would try to be as honest as I could. But I know nothing, Will. I'm as mystified as you are. The truth is not in us, at least, the knowledge is not in our minds. Not yet."

Will knew that he would have to be satisfied with that, though the words somehow didn't seem quite _right_. He was sure that Hannibal was hiding something from him.

He was sure that he could see secrets hidden in those dark eyes.

But whatever those secrets were, he was forbidden entry to them. He knew that Hannibal wouldn't reveal anything that he might know, not until he was ready to do so.

He would have to be patient and wait for Hannibal to tell him anything -- or, if Hannibal was telling the truth, he would have to accept the fact that Hannibal knew no more than he himself did.

"Do you really believe that, Hannibal? That the truth isn't somewhere within us, just waiting to come out so we can acknowledge it?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral. "I do. Whatever's wrong with me -- and I believe that something _is_ wrong -- the answer is hidden there somewhere."

Hannibal looked thoughtful for a few moments, then he nodded. "Perhaps you're right, Will. If that is the case, then we simply have to wait for the truth to reveal itself to us."

And that was all the answer he was getting. Will knew that Hannibal wouldn't say more than that, no matter what the other man might think; he would stay closemouthed on the subject.

He would just have to wait and see if any answers did indeed present themselves.

But he knew that those answers would be elusive. Will didn't expect to find them easily, and he didn't expect them to just show up out of nowhere.

No, he would have to keep searching for them, he told himself, sitting back in his chair with a sigh. But somehow, he had the definite feeling that he wouldn't like what he might eventually find.


	18. An Important Opinion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Other people's opinions don't really matter to Will -- save for one.

Did he really _want_ to know if his premonitions were true?

If he did know, then he would spend all of his time looking over his shoulder.

Will sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against his chair. He felt worn out; he had been pushing himself hard lately, trying to fill his life with work.

Between the work he had to do for his classes, writing lectures, grading essays, and putting together slideshows, and his work in the field, he seemed to be exhausted all the time. But he still wasn't sleeping well; he was almost afraid to let himself fall asleep, at this point.

He didn't want to see any of those visions again. He didn't want to see himself lying cold and dead in his dreams. It was bad enough that those visions happened at crime scenes.

He didn't need them getting into his head when he slept, too.

Hannibal would probably chide him for his attitude, and say that he was hiding from the truth. Well, maybe he was, Will thought, feeliing somewhat defensive. Maybe he _was_ afraid to know the truth. Maybe he didn't want to be able to see when his existence would come to an end.

Nobody wanted to see that. Nobody wanted to know when, or how, they were going to die. It was human nature to cling to life, to push death away.

He embraced death, in a way, by virtue of the work he did. But he didn't want to dance with that spectre himself. He wanted to keep distance between them.

If he couldn't distance himself from death, then he would end up falling into its waiting arms. It would be far too easy for him to let that darkness swallow him up; he warned himself against just that every time he had to put his empathy to use at a crime scene.

All right, so maybe some people would say that he had a yellow streak down his back that was a mile wide. Will really didn't care what others might think of him.

As long as he was alive and well, opinions didn't matter.

He wasn't a coward, but there were some things that he didn't want to see, didn't want to know about. His own death was definitely one of them.

Will sighed, opening his eyes and raising his head. He couldn't sit here all day; he might not have a new crime scene to go to, but he was sure that the forensics team would have discovered something new on their current case,and he would have to see them to be kept in the loop.

Would they sense that he had a yellow streak painted down his back? Probably not, because they didn't know about his odd visions. At least, they didn't know yet.

He couldn't help wondering what Hannibal thought.

Somehow, that opinion seemed to be the most important one of all, even more so than his own.


	19. Personal Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will doesn't feel that he's strong enough on his own to cope with the visions of his own death.

Will sighed softly, looking down at his hands clasped in his lap.

"I don't know if I can deal with getting these flashes of the future," he told Hannibal, his voice trembling. "I don't want to see my own death, and know that it's true."

Hannibal shook his head, frowning as he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. "Will, you don't know for certain that you are visualising your own death."

But he did, Will wanted to shout. He had seen himself, lying there still and pale and cold, very obviously dead. How could he see that vision in his mind, and not know that it was his own death that was right there in front of him? "Yes, I am," he finally answered. "I'm sure of it."

"You have to be strong, Will," Hannibal told him. "You can't simply cower in fear because of something you have seen in a vision, something that may not even be true."

Will knew that Hannibal was right, that those words should give him strength. But somehow, they just made him feel smaller and more helpless.

How could he fight this? How could he not be afraid of what he was seeing?

No one wanted to know when and how they would die, did they? That was something better left to the fates, something that he didn't want any concrete knowledge of.

Knowing that he was dead in that vision, but not knowing just _how_ he had died, was driving him insane. A part of him didn't want to know, but another part of him _had_ to.

Will took one deep breath, then another. He didn't know what else to do but to let the visions show him what they would, even though he was torn as to whether he could deal with seeing more of what they apparently wanted to show him. He couldn't control the visions; he had no idea when they would come.

That was the scariest thing, really. Knowing that he had absolutely no control over what he would see. Control was something that he wanted to take a firm grip on.

Being out of control, for him, only had the most frightening connotations. And seeing his own death, knowing that he couldn't prevent it, was about as out of control as things could be.

"You are not alone in this, Will." Hannibal's voice was very soft, very quiet. "You may feel that you are, because no one else can see what you are seeing in your mind. But you have people around you, people who want to help you. Please allow us to do that."

How was he supposed to manage that? He'd never been good at letting other people in, and Hannibal knew that. He was more likely to shut others out than allow them to help.

And after that horrible dream he'd had where Hannibal had been the one to kill him, he didn't know whether it was safe to let Hannibal in or not. He was almost afraid of this man.

Still, what choice did he have?

Hannibal might be the only person who could help him get to the bottom of this. Hannibal could very well be the only one who was equipped to navigate the maze of his mind.

Without Hannibal on his side, those visions of his death could become a self-fulfilling prophecy. But then again, what if that dream had been a prophecy in itself?

What if Hannibal _was_ the person who would be the cause of his death? What if that hadn't just been some awful nightmare, but the real prophetic vision, the true one? What if he was wrong to be here even now, wrong to trust this man, wrong to let Hannibal see into his mind?

Will took a deep breath, closing his eyes, trying to center himself. He couldn't let himself think like that. A dream was just a dream, nothing more. It wasn't real.

"I don't think I'm strong enough to figure this out on my own, or to deal with it alone," he admitted, his voice sounding very small and helpless. "I think I need other people to help me."

Hannibal's gaze was on his face, steady, not looking away.

Hannibal nodded, doing something that Will definitely hadn't expected. Hannibal reached out to take his hand, holding it in his own warm hand, then giving it a gentle squeeze.

"You may not be strong enough. But maybe we are," he said, his voice firm and steady. "You and me, Will. And anyone else who may be able to help with this."

Will wanted to believe in the assurance that he heard in that voice. He wanted to believe that together, he and Hannibal, and as the other man said, anyone else who could help them, would be strong enough to find out just what these visions meant -- and that he would find the personal strength to see this through.

He didn't have a choice, though, did he? He _had_ to find out what was causing these visions -- and maybe, if he _was_ seeing his own death, he could find a way to stop it.

"I hope we are, Hannibal," he said, shaking his head, looking down at their clasped hands. "I really, really hope so. I'm not ready for the alternative. Not yet."

Hannibal said something then that shook Will to his core.

The words he spoke were low, a mere whisper, but Will heard them loud and clear.

"Neither am I," he murmured. "I couldn't bear it."


	20. Which Road To Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One road leads to safety, the other to darkness. Which one will he choose to walk down?

Which way was he supposed to go?

Will paused in front of the signpost, squinting at it. It seemed to be pointing in two directions, and he wasn't sure which one he was supposed to take.

Did one lead to safety, and the other to an uncertain future? That was what the arrows seemed to be telling him; they didn't point to any place that he knew.

Which way should he turn? He started at the signpost, unsure of just what to do. Neither way was clearly marked; there was snow all around him, and he couldn't see far into the distance. He didn't know which arrow led to safety, and which could possibly lead him into danger.

He had never been one to make sure that he was treading on the safest part of the road, had he? He'd always been more than willing to be adventurous.

But this time, he couldn't afford to be that way. This could be a life-or-death situation -- and he didn't want to risk his life. He'd already done that enough times.

How was he supposed to know which route led to safety?

He couldn't know, he told himself. There was no way for him to be sure. All that he could do was try his best to figure out which was the right path for him to take.

Safety and security weren't going to beckon to him. They never had. He'd always been the sort of person who would head directly for the dangerous side of things. It was the darkness, the danger, that always seemed to call to him -- and he always felt compelled to answer that call.

He shouldn't, and he knew it. But it was like a siren, luring him, pulling him forward, daring him to dash himself on the rocks and lie there bleeding out his life.

The thought made Will shudder and close his eyes.

He opened them again almost immediately. There was no sense in closing his eyes to what was around him; it would still be there. It wasn't going to disappear.

Trying to push decisions away wouldn't make them any easier. And trying to avoid danger in his life wasn't something that he was capable of doing.

Why was he always so drawn to the dark side? It had always pulled at him, even when he was a child. It was why he'd always wanted to hide his empathy, why he'd always been so afraid of it. That empathy seemed to show him the dark side of everything, and of everyone around him.

He shouldn't be drawn to that darkness. Everyone had a dark side; he knew that. But he wasn't the kind of person who gravitated towards darkness.

All of his life he'd tried to be one of the good guys; that was what he _wanted_ to be. He didn't want to think that he could give himself over to his dark side, that he would indulge it.

Those horrible visions that he'd been having lately of his own death were just more of that dark side trying to draw him in, beckoning to him and telling him that this was the future in store for him. It was trying to make him take a few steps into that darkness, making him face his own fears.

He didn't need to face them. Not now. He didn't need to know what his future would be, or if his visions had the right of it. He was perfectly content to not know.

Will studied the signpost, catching his lower lip between his teeth. Was this the final crossroads for him? Was it time to make the decision about which way to go?

If it was, then he wasn't ready to face that decision yet.

One way could lead towards the fulfillment of those horrifying visions. He was sure of that. The other way led to safety and security, and that was the road he should take.

The problem was that he didn't have any idea which road would lead him to the safest place. What should he do? Which way should he go? He stood there in the snow, indecisive, starting to shiver from the cold, unable to take a step in either of the directions that he could choose to walk in.

He was starting to breathe faster, his heart racing in his chest. Panic was welling up inside him, a panic that he couldn't hold back, a feeling of inevitability --

With a sharp cry, Will jerked awake, staring up at the ceiling.

He wasn't outside in the snow, standing a signpost that could be pointing him in a fatal direction. He was in his own bed, safe and sound, awaking from a dream.

A dream? He ran his hand over his face, slowly sitting up in bed and kicking the covers back. More like a nightmare, one that he was sure he would have again.

He wasn't so sure that it had just been a dream; somehow, what he'd seen seemed to have a deeper meaning than most people would think to look for. There were choices facing him right now; the signpost had seemed to point him in two different directions, two major choices that he could make.

Will lay back down slowly, pulling the covers up around him; he had started to shiver, and he didn't want to think about the possible choices that were facing him.

He knew what they were. One would lead him down a darker road than he was used to traveling, and the other would keep him safe -- well, more or less.

He wasn't ready to make that choice. Not yet.

Maybe he never would be, he told himself ruefully, closing his eyes. And he didn't have to think about it right now. He just needed to try and get some rest.

Would this choice keep being presented to him? God, he hoped not, he told himself as he rolled over and punched his pillow, trying find a comfortable place. He didn't want to have those choices staring him in the face all the time, trying to force him to make a decision. He needed time. A lot more time.

There was too much on his mind for sleep. Reluctantly, Will kicked the covers off again and got to his feet, reaching for his robe. He should take a shower, start the day early.

Maybe then his head would be clearer, and he could think more rationally.


	21. Stranger Things Have Happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is used to strangeness and odd situations -- after all, he's lived inside one for all of his life.

"This is one of the strangest crime scenes I've ever seen."

Will shrugged as he looked around; to him, the crime scene didn't look that much stranger than some he'd seen in the past, but then, he was inured to odd things.

"I've seen stranger," he told the cop who had uttered those words. The other man didn't answer; he merely nodded and pressed his lips together, moving away from Will.

Will wasn't surprised by that; everyone at crime scenes tended to keep their distance from him. If they had been allowed to be in the room with him when he was going into a killer's mind, they would probably want to be even further away from his presence; he knew that would freak a lot of people out.

But he didn't allow people to be around him when he did that; Jack was the only one he felt comfortable with having there in the room, or wherever the crime scene was, with him.

Jack was really the only person who didn't look at him as though he was some kind of freak. He might not understand Will's ability, but he wasn't terrified of it, either.

Most people were. Or if not terrified, definitely apprehensive.

People didn't understand what he could do, and what humans didn't understand, they always tried to destroy. Will was sure that he knew that fact better than most people did.

There were still times when he hated his ability, though he'd more or less made his peace with it. He had turned it into something that helped people, which made it worthwhile.

But there had been years, especially in his childhood, when he himself hadn't understood just what his empathy was, or what it could do. And he had hated himself for possessing that empathy, feeling like a freak, always being on the outside looking in, never really a part of anything.

The other kids around him had kept their distance, and he'd never had any close friends. Any time he'd made friends, they had quickly learned to back away from him.

It had been that way all of his life, hadn't it? It was why he had such a problem socializing now, why he always avoided any kind of social situation if he could.

He'd never been comfortable around people, but then, it didn't seem as though anyone was truly comfortable around him, either. Even Jack, who seemed to understand him fairly well, was never truly at ease with him, especially when they were at a crime scene and Will put his empathy to good use.

The only person who never seemed uncomfortable around him, the only one who never backed away or kept distance between them, was Hannibal.

Though he couldn't help wondering if Hannibal kept his own secrets, hidden behind that inscrutable mask that he always seemed to wear. There was more to him than met the eye.

Hannibal was like him in that way. In so many ways.

It almost shocked him how much alike they could be in some ways, and how different in others. But then, Hannibal had a way of surprising him, over and over again.

How did he feel about Hannibal? That was one question that he had pushed to the back of his mind, refusing to let himself answer it, not wanting to struggle with it.

Did he even _want_ to know the answer? His emotions were completely tangled when it came to Hannibal. He didn't know exactly what he felt, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to examine that tangle of emotions more closely. It was a closed book to him at the moment.

Now _that_ would be strange .... the two of them together. Himself and Hannibal. Will didn't think anyone would ever see anything stranger than that.

Though he couldn't deny that the idea was .... well, enticing, in a way. He and Hannibal as a couple. He hadn't really thought about it before, but he was oddly attracted by the idea.

A part of him wondered if Hannibal would feel the same.

Stranger things could happen, he supposed, especially given the fact that Hannibal already seemed to be attracted to him. Who knew what the future might hold?

Will pushed that thought away with a sigh, and turned to look at the body on the bed near him. Closing his eyes, he knelt, one hand reaching out to touch the corpse. It was time to do what he had come here to do, and to stop thinking about his own personal troubles.

"This is my design ...." He began to lose himself in the killer's mind, letting his own thoughts go, becoming immersed in someone else's psyche.

It was almost a relief to be outside of who he was, if only for a brief time.


	22. Spread Too Thin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is sure that he's headed for a physical breakdown, if not a mental one.

He was spreading himself far too thin.

Will leaned against the bathroom sink, studying his face in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked as though he hadn't slept at all.

Well, he'd barely slept, actually. He'd gotten a couple of hours of sleep, then he had awakened, tossing and turning until he'd dropped off again just before dawn.

He'd managed to get another couple of hours' sleep before his alarm had gone off, and he'd had to get up. He was wide awake now, thanks to a long shower, but he knew that he looked terrible. It would be obvious to Jack, and everyone around him, that he hadn't been sleeping.

He didn't want to go to sleep. He didn't want to sleepwalk again, and see his own death behind his closed eyelids. He didn't want to start having horrible nightmares.

So far, he hadn't seen his death in dreams as much as he'd seen it in waking visions. But he was sue that the images were there, caught somewhere in his subconscious mind.

He already saw enough of them in his unguarded moments.

He wasn't sleeping well because he didn't _want_ to let himself sleep, even though he knew that sooner or later, it was going to backfire on him.

At some point, he would end up dropping off to sleep between classes, or when he was sitting on the couch at night reading a book, or grading papers.

He would end up falling asleep, and he would probably see his own death again, only this time it would be in glorious technicolor detail, with every moment etched onto his mind in crystal clarity. He would see how he was killed -- but he was sure that he wouldn't know who had done it.

Not sleeping wasn't the only thing he'd been doing to make sure that he stayed run-down and tired, Will told himself as he turned away from his reflection. He was working too hard.

He'd been in the field more than usual lately, telling Jack that he could handle it. He hadn't been surprised when his boss had accepted his words without comment.

Jack needed him to help solve his cases, and Will knew it. He was shamelessly using the work that Jack had for him in the field as a way to justify his sleeplessness; he knew that if anyone professed worry as to why he looked so tired, he would use that as his excuse.

He was spreading himself far too thin, really, and he knew it. Between classes and his field work, and the fact that he was getting almost no sleep, he was headed for a breakdown.

It would be physical more than mental, that was for sure. His body couldn't keep going on little to no sleep; at some point, he was going to pass out, or something equally dramatic.

He just hoped that it didn't happen in front of a classroom full of students.

The last thing he needed to do was prove that he was definitely spread too thin by passing out in front of a room full of people. But maybe better there than at a crime scene.

Will winced at the thought as he pulled on his jeans and a sweater, then headed down the stairs to make himself a strong pot of coffee to start the day.

Oh, that would be just wonderful, wouldn't it? He could see it now -- himself fainting at a crime scene, and being told in no uncertain terms by Jack Crawford that he had to see a doctor, that he was to take some kind of vacation. That would drive him insane. He _needed_ to work.

He needed work to take his mind off those disturbing visions. If he was at home all the time, left to his own devices, then he could fall into one of those visions at any time.

As he made the coffee and then poured himself a cup, he sighed softly and closed his eyes, wondering how he was going to hide his obvious fatigue from Jack.

His boss was a very observant man. He was bound to say something.

His head jerked up when he heard a knock at his front door; his blue eyes widened, his hand shaking a bit as he set down his coffee cup. Who in the world would be here at this hour?

Will headed towards the front door, hesitating as he reached out to unlock and open it. Who was on the other side? Could Jack be here, ready to tell him that he wasn't looking at all well lately, and that he had to take some time off and get more rest? Or was it someone else?

Whoever it was, they would immediately see the dark circles, the pale face, the evidence of fatigue. And they would undoubtedly be worried about him.

Will sighed softly, closing his eyes for a moment. One more problem to deal with.

He reached for the doorknob, ready to turn it. But something made him hold back. He didn't want whoever was there to see him looking so terrible, so obviously fatigued.

Well, there was no help for it, he told himself sternly. He'd have to listen to a lecture, more than likely, but hopefully, he would be able to deflect any concern.

When the door swung back, he could only stand there, staring.

Hannibal stood there on his front porch, a covered basket in his hand. He had obviously brought food, and there was a bright smile on his face.

The smile dimmed as he looked at Will. He could see the concern written on the other man's face, but somehow, it didn't make him feel defensive or irritated, as it would with anyone else. It just made him feel warm and cared for to know that someone cared for his well-being.

Will opened his mouth, but no words came out. All he could do was step back, an unspoken invitation for Hannibal to enter the house.

"Hello, Will," Hannibal said as he stepped through the door.

"H-hello," Will answered, feeling as though his day had just brightened immeasurably.


	23. Chasing the Visions Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is at his wit's end as to how to make the visions of his own death disappear.

Hannibal stood there smiling at Will before he hefted the picnic basket in one hand.

"I was concerned about you, Will," he said, his voice soft. "Anyone can tell that you haven't been at your best lately, and I thought that it would be a good idea to check on you."

"Thanks, Hannibal," Will said, knowing that he sounded tired and listless as he held the door open for the other man. That was how he felt, so it was no surprise. "That's nice of you."

Hannibal shook his head as he stepped inside, looking at Will with a worried expression. "Not just nice, Will. I've been concerned about you. Everyone has. Everyone who knows you believes that you are working yourself too hard. These .... visions that you have been seeing are getting to you far too much."

"And how would _you_ feel if you were seeing visions of yourself dead, Hannibal?" Will inquired, following the other man to the kitchen. "Wouldn't you want to make them disappear?"

"How is working too hard, burying yourself in more visions of blood and death, going to make what you see in your own mind go away?" Hannibal asked, turning to him.

Will shrugged; he really had no answer for that question.

He looked down at his hands as he sat down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs, sighing softly. How was he supposed to answer that question?

Of course seeing other dead bodies didn't make his own disturbing visions go away. He wished that it did, but no such luck. But at least he didn't always see himself there.

There were times when he did, and that was bad enough. But he knew that he couldn't make those visions stop, not until he knew what was causing them. And he had no idea where to begin with that. He hadn't though that anyone noticed his consternation, but maybe he was wrong.

"If you're offering to help, to give me some ideas on how to make those visions of my own death stop, then I'm open to pretty much any suggestions," he said, sounding more tart than he'd meant to.

When Hannibal's brow furrowed, Will apologized swiftly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so .... abrupt," he said, sighing again. "I'm just kind of a wit's end with this, Hannibal."

The other man nodded slowly, looking sympathetic. "Perhaps I can help, Will," he said, his voice soft. "We can put our heads together, and see what we can come up with."

"I've thought about this so much, obsessed over it, even, and I can't come up with any way to make these visions go away," Will told him, knowing that he was starting to sound desperate, and not caring. "I just want them to disappear, and sometimes I thiink that's only going to happen when ..... when I die."

"You are not going to die, Will." This time, Hannibal's voice was surprisingly strong and firm. "I will not allow that to happen. You are too precious to me."

Will blinked, surprised by Hannibal's declaration. Well. He hadn't expected _that_. "And just how are we going to make them stop? Any ideas, off the top of your head?"

Hannibal shook his head, smiling slightly as he did.

"Not off the top of my head, no," he answered. "But I am sure that once we talk about this a bit more, and delve into your own feelings, that we will find some solution."

"I hope so," Will said, his voice a bare murmur. "Because this is driving me insane. Every time I see one of those visions, I feel like I'm getting closer to it."

It really did terrify him every time he saw himself lying still and cold, bloody and broken, and he knew that he was seeing his own dead body. He had always known that he had a dangerous job; the danger wasn't what frightened him so much. What was so scary was seeing what could very well be his own future.

"I don't want to be a seer," he whispered. "I don't want to predict anyone else's end, and certainly not my own. This is terrifying, Hannibal. It could turn into another ability that I don't want."

Hannibal laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "We'll discover a way to chase those visions from your mind," he promised, his voice strong and sure. "But for now, it's time for lunch."

With those words, he proceeded to take food out of the picnic basket.

Will sat back, closing his eyes. He hoped that Hannibal was right, and that these disturbing visions would come to an end soon. He didn't think that he could take much more of them.

They were battering away at his sanity, at his peace of mind. The last thing he wanted was to find out that they were yet another disconcerting ability that he had no wish to possess.

He got up to get plates, glasses and silverware, hoping that he and Hannibal would be able to talk this over in detail, and they would come to some kind of conclusion.


	24. The Darkness Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal puts forth a theory that Will doesn't like.

"Will, what is around your body in these visions of yours?"

Will looked up, surprised by Hannibal's question. "What does that have to do with anything? I'm not looking at what's around me. I'm looking at myself."

Hannibal shook his head, putting down his fork and leaning back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Will's face. "Are you surrounded by darkness, or light? If you are surrounded by darkness, that is a fairly good indication that you meet your death by some sort of foul play."

Will's lips quirked in an approximation of a wry smile. "Given what I do for a living, I'd say that's pretty much a foregone conclusion, isn't it?"

Hannibal shook his head, a slight frown marring his brow.

"No, Will, it isn't," he said, his voice gentle. "You could very well die of something like a heart attack, given how hard you push yourself when you're working."

Will sighed, looking down at his plate. Hannibal was probably right about that; he knew that there were times when he should take a few steps back, but he could never quite bring himself to do so. He always felt that the had to give as much as he could to his work. 

He owed the victims of the crimes he investigated that much. He couldn't simply go halfway and then back off. He had to give his all, until the cases were solved.

"So do you think that a darkness follows me around, that I attract it?" Will said, interested in where Hannibal might be going with this theory. "I always thought I attracted light."

Hannibal shrugged, eating a mouthful of pasta before he spoke again. "I think that you are a curious mixture of both dark and light, Will," he said, his gaze resting on the younger man's face. "We all are, but the darkness in you is always fighting to take control, though it never quite does."

Will felt a chill go through him at those words; he didn't like what Hannibal was inferring. He didn't want to think that any darkness could ever take him over.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, his tone challenging.

Hannibal put down his fork, leaning back in his chair, his gaze never leaving Will's face. "I mean that the darkness in your soul is always fighting for dominance."

"It won't happen," Will stated succinctly, feeling a sudden rush of anger. "I'm a decent person, Hannibal. I might spend time inside the minds of killers, but I'm not like them. That kind of darkness isn't a part of me. It's not who I am, and it's not who I want to be. You've got it wrong."

Abruptly, he pushed back his chair and stood up, starting to clear away his plate. He didn't want to continue having this conversation. He wanted to put it out of his mind.

He wanted those uncomfortable words to go away -- though he knew that they wouldn't.


	25. Dire Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will really doesn't like the direction that Hannibal's words are leading his thoughts in.

What if Hannibal was right, and he attracted darkness?

Will shuddered at the thought; he didn't want to believe that about himself. He had always thought that he attracted the light, not the dark.

He _wanted_ to believe that. He wanted to believe that he was a lodestar for good, that he chased down evil and vanquished it. But Hannibal's words had started his thoughts along a different path, and those thoughts chilled him to the bone and made him feel uncomfortable.

He'd always known that he had a dark side, but he'd thought that his choices to put his abilities to use to help people had canceled out those less-than-desirable qualities.

Maybe they hadn't. Maybe he'd been lying to himself all this time.

WIll shook his head, scowling as he turned down the road that led to his house. No, he wasn't a bad person. He didn't listen to the darkness that swirled around him.

He'd thought that he was doing a good job of keeping that darkness within him at bay, of keeping it tamped down so that it was only in use whenever he was doing his job and getting into a serial killer's mind. That was the only time he allowed that darkness to come out.

But what if it manifested itself in other ways that he didn't realize? What if that darkness was trying to show him what could be in store for him if he didn't let it have free rein?

Will shook his head, refusing to believe that thought. No, that was ridiculous. The darkness that he carried within himself didn't have a mind of its own. 

But what if Hannibal was right, and it was struggling to come into its own, to take over more of him? There was already one place within him, a deep, dark place, where it ruled. He didn't want that part of himself to grow and become larger and harder to handle.

Will sighed, stopping the car in front of the house and resting his head on the steering wheel, closing his eyes. He didn't need to deal with this. Not now.

He had enough problems already, dammit.

This was something that he didn't need to deal with right now. But he couldn't push the thought out of his head now that Hannibal had awakened it.

if his boyfriend was right .... Will shivered at the thought of that swirling darkness within a small part of himself that he tried so hard to keep hidden roaring to life, taking him over, controlling him. That was the last thing he wanted to happen. That wouldn't just be dangerous for him.

Darkness like that could be dangerous for everyone around him. He just hoped that he could keep it hidden, keep it under control, and not let it rise to the surface.

Because if it did, there could be some dire consequences.


	26. Light and Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Hannibal, Will represents light, despite the darkness that resides within him. And he desperately needs that light to survive.

There was a darkness around Will that he couldn't fathom.

Hannibal frowned, leaning forward and steepling his fingers under his chin, resting his elbows on his knees. It puzzled him, this new way of seeing Will.

Before, he had always thought that Will was filled with light. He had always carried a darkness within him; everyone did, of course. There were two sides to every person, but he had always seen Will as being a bastion of light and hope. His darkness had always seemed to be well controlled.

But now, he was seeing Will in a much darker light than he ever had before. That darkness was starting to overwhelm him, and he didn't know why that was.

Did it mean that Will was giving in to that dark side?

In a way, that pleased him. He _wanted_ Will to embrace that darkness, to become all that he was capable of being, to reflect Hannibal himself.

Though as much as he would dearly love to see Will become better acquainted with his dark side, he also had a problem with that. If Will turned himself over to that darkness within him, then his light would dim -- and that would take a great deal away from his attraction.

Hannibal was honest enough with himself to admit that he was more attracted to the light within Will than he was to the darkness. That light represented .... what?

Salvation? Hardly. He knew that he had fallen too far for anyone to bring him back to that light; the best that he could hope for was to be allowed near it.

No, he could never achieve that light for himself, nor did he truly want to. But he _did_ want to bask in it, to let that light wash over him. There was a part of him that _needed_ such light to balance the darkness that had long ago taken him over.

He didn't want to keep that darkness from spreading further; it had already seeped into his soul completely. He _was_ that darkness; he couldn't deny the fact.

But Will's light gave him hope. He _needed_ that light. 

How was he going to make sure that Will didn't lose that precious light, that he wasn't completely submerged into the darkness that was so much a part of him?

Hannibal wasn't sure just how he would keep that from happening, but somehow, he would. If Will lost that light, then neither of them would have anything to anchor them. That wasn't something that he could countenance happening. He had to rescue them both from such a catastrophe.

Will would slip over the edge, and though he would become what Hannibal longed for him to be, he wouldn't be the harbinger of light any more. 

Hannibal needed that light. He needed it to survive.

It would be a battle between light and dark.

A battle that he and Will could ill afford to lose.


	27. Unwanted Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will doesn't want to deal with the changes that he feels are happening within himself.

He didn't want these changes in himself. The mere thought of change was unnerving.

Will closed his eyes, leaning his head back on his couch and staring up at the ceiling. He _was_ changing; he could feel it in his heart and soul.

He was becoming the kind of person he'd never liked, someone who always looked on the dark side. He was finding it harder and harder to see the beauty in the world; he was getting to the point where he only saw the disadvantages in any situation, and never the hope.

These premonitions of his own death, or whatever they were, had slowly but surely begun to change him into someone he didn't like at all.

And if he didn't like himself, then other people probably didn't like him much, either.

He didn't want to change. He didn't want to become that sour person who was always on the outskirts of everything, the person that no one wanted to be around.

Of course, he was already on the outskirts of life as it was, wasn't he? he asked himself wryly. His empathy had always made sure that he would be the person who was on the outside looking in -- but now, that condition was only being exacerbated by the visions he was having.

He wanted them to stop, to just _go away_ , before they changed him any more than he already had been. He wanted to go back to the person he always had been.

Was that even possible any more? he thought with a soft sigh. Or was he stuck with who he was now? Could he go back to being positive?

That depended on whether or not he kept seeing his own death. Will sighed, knowing that he had to face the truth, however reluctantly he might do so. As long as he was seeing visions of his own death, then he wasn't going to be able to be positive about anything in his life.

There had to be some way to make those visions disappear. He had only started seeing them recently -- so what had he been doing lately that was different?

He'd have to think long and hard about that.

Whatever he had been doing differently, he had to stop it. Or maybe it wasn't something that he was doing. Maybe he was just looking at his life in a different perspective.

Will thought about that, feeling a slight glimmer of hope rising within him. Maybe it wasn't the premonitions that were changing him. Maybe he had already started to look at everything in a different light than he usually did, and doing that was _causing_ those disturbing visions.

It was something for him to think about, he decided, getting to his feet and heading into the kitchen to make himself dinner. It was an interesting theory.

He'd talk with Hannibal about this as soon as he got the chance.


	28. Unexpressed Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he's sitting in front of Hannibal, Will finds that the words he needs to say are stuck in his throat, unable to be said.

"So, Will, what was it that you were so desperate to talk about?"

Hannibal steepled his fingers under his chin, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, gazing directly at Will, making him squirm uncomfortably.

Now that he was here, in front of Hannibal, and the other man was ready to discuss his theories on why he was heaving these premonitions of his own death, he couldn't think of a single word to say. Everything that had been in his head had simply vanished.

All of his words had vanished as though they had never existed; all he wanted to do was mumble his excuses, get up, and leave the room.

But he couldn't do that. They were here, after all.

Finally, he sighed, fidgeting and looking down at the hands that he had clasped in his lap to keep them from shaking. "I don't know. I can't think of anything to say."

Hannibal nodded, jotting something down in the notebook he held on his lap. "That's not surprising, Will. You usually have a hard time speaking words that you know you want to say. When you have the most need to speak, you feel that you cannot."

Will's blue eyes widened at that thought; he knew that Hannibal was right, and he wondered why he had never realized that fact before.

He always had a hard time opening himself up to anyone, even to Hannibal. But that observation was right on the money. Hannibal had seen into his soul.

Whenever he most needed to speak, he found himself holding back the words he knew that he wanted to say. His tongue felt as though it was tied in knots; he couldn't make the words come out. They were all jumbled up inside of his brain, unable to be expressed.

That was exactly how he felt now -- tongue-tied and silenced. But he had to say the words that he knew were there. He had to make Hannibal understand them.

Opening up to Hannibal now was really important.

What was he writing in that notebook? Will craned his neck, trying to peer at Hannibal's writing, though he knew that he couldn't read it.

He could do a lot of things, but he couldn't read upside down. Still, he would give a lot to know just what the other man was writing down, his ideas on the subject. He wanted to know exactly what Hannibal thought of him, just what went into that notebook of his.

Well, the only way to find out was to ask. Will took a deep breath and opened his mouth, ready to ask Hannibal just what he was writing, what his thoughts were.

And found that words, once again, refused to be spoken.

Why wouldn't they come out? Why couldn't he make himself ask a simple question? 

He knew that it was because he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.


	29. What He Can't Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As much as Will wishes for some peace of mind, he knows that he isn't going to find it any time soon.

Will sighed, shaking his head, his hands clenching in his lap.

"I don't know what I want to say," he mumbled, not looking up to meet Hannibal's gaze. "The words are there, but it's like they're trapped inside me and they don't want to come out."

"Perhaps you are expecting too much of yourself, Will," Hannibal said, his voice gentle. "You cannot push your mind to achieve things that it is not ready for."

"But I shouldn't have to deal with all these premonitions of my own death," Will said, shaking his head. "I see enough death around me every day. I shouldn't spend time thinking of my own. It just doesn't make sense to me that I'm seeing myself dead instead of the actual victims."

"You could be putting yourself in their place," Hannibal suggested, raising his brows. "You may possibly be feeling even more empathy for them than you normally do."

Will nodded, a bit reluctantly. "I guess you could be right about that," he grudgingly agreed. "But somehow, that doesn't feel like the right answer."

Hannibal shook his head, a small frown marring his brow.

"I doubt that anything will feel like the correct answer to you at the moment, Will," he said, his tone measured and even. "You are too close to all of this."

Will had to admit that Hannibal was probably right about that. He had let himself stress over this for so long, and now, the stress had become a part of him.

That was one thing he shouldn't let himself do, and he knew it. It was so easy for people who worked in the kind of field that he did to get burned out; he was sure that was what had happened to him, slowly but surely. He was getting to the point where he would be of no use to anyone.

He should stop. He knew it. But he couldn't. If he did, then more people might die, and he wouldn't be trying to help find their killers, or getting closure for their loved ones.

He couldn't do that. He couldn't turn his back on those people.

It just didn't seem right to let anyone suffer, when he might have the chance to bring them some closure and, if not peace, at least an acceptance of what had happened.

And that was the crux of things, wasn't it? he asked himself as he settled back into his chair, heaving a sigh. He pushed himself to do more, to be what everyone needed, and he was only one man. He was asking himself to do something that others didn't expect him to do.

He was asking himself to be everything to everyone, and that wasn't possible. Did he expect himself to be some kind of Superman? Was he asking himself for something he didn't have, some kind of superhuman power to take away everyone's suffering and make it all better?

He couldn't do that. He wasn't some kind of hero. He was just a man with a singular ability, one that, at this point in time, he was having a hard time dealing with.

Hannibal was regarding him with interst, his brows raised again.

"What was the sigh for, Will?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. "I can only imagine that you have come to some sort of answer within yourself, and are trying to accept it."

"I think I'm asking for something I don't have, and probably never will," Will admitted, sighing again. "I'm asking for peace of mind, and as long as I'm doing this job, I'm not going to get it. I see too much, and I feel too much. I can't expect to be at peace with any of it."

Hannibal nodded, settling back in his chair and regarding Will soberly. "I believe that you are entirely right about that. And you may see your own death because of that inner turmoil."

Will hoped that Hannibal was right about that. He didn't want to think that his premonitions of his own death, the horrible things he saw, were the actual truth of his future.

He wasn't ready for that. Not for a long time, anyway.

Death still seemed a long way off, and it wasn't something he wanted to think about in terms of his own life. He wasn't ready to contemplate his own mortality.

But these .... _visions_ were forcing him to do just that. If he wanted peace of mind, he wasn't going to get it any time soon. He was certain of that.

"I'm asking for what I can't have," he told Hannibal, finally meeting the other man's gaze squarely. "I know that. And I might never have it, at least not as long as I'm doing this job. But I can't just stop and walk away. I have too much invested in my work."

"Your emotions are far too greatly invested in your work," Hannibal told him, shaking his head. "I have always thought so. But that is another discussion, for another day."

Did that mean that they weren't going to talk about this particular subject any longer? Will was surprised; he'd though that Hannibal would be eager to pursue this topic.

Still, he wasn't going to force the issue. It felt too uncomfortable now.

"I know they are," he said, sighing again as he got to his feet. "But I can't just turn my emotions off, Hannibal. And I don't think I'd be a good agent if I did."

"Of course you wouldn't," Hannibal told him, though his tone sounded somwhat patronizing to Will. But he brushed that thought away; Hannibal thought highly of what he did, and he knew it. He was simply agreeing with what Will was saying, that was all.

Though somehow, as he moved towards the front door to take his leave of Hannibal and go home, he had the strange feeling that Hannibal was playing some sort of game with him.

No. He pushed that thought away, slamming a door on it.

He wasn't going to be paranoid. He wouldn't imagine things that weren't there. This problem was all in his own mind; Hannibal had nothing to do with his visions.

He still hadn't been able to articulate fully what was in his mind. Something was stopping his thoughts from being expressed; he wasn't entirely sure of what he wanted to say.

The words were there, but they weren't coming out. 

That was more than a little frightening for him; he'd always been able to express what was in his mind clearly, and not being able to make him feel as if he was bound and gagged.

He took one deep breath, then another, before he faced Hannibal, giving the other man a wan smile. "I think I'm just thinking about it too much. What I need is a good night's sleep, and to get all of this off my mind for a while. I just hope I don't have any more visions while I'm trying to rest."

Hannibal nodded, placing a hand on Will's shoulder as he opened the front door. "I hope not too, Will. Good night. Be careful on the drive home, and sleep well."

Will walked to his car slowly, almost wishing that he'd chosen to stay here tonight.

But he couldn't run away from his problems by hiding behind Hannibal, he told himself firmly, buckling his seat belt and starting the engine.

He couldn't just keep _wishing_ for the peace of mind he sought. He couldn't ask for it. He had to find it for himself. He would have to face his problems head-on to find it.

That was proving to be one of the hardest things he'd ever tried to do.


	30. Burnout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is put on an enforced leave of absence from working in the field, a situation that he doesn't like at all.

"What do you mean, I'm on an enforced leave of absence?"

Will blinked, unable to believe what he was hearing. Jack couldn't be doing this to him. Jack, of all people, knew how important his work was to him.

Without his work, he wouldn't be able to keep his sanity. Even though he saw those unnerving premonitions of himself meeting his death whenever he was at a crime scene, his job was still the one thing that could keep him grounded and make him feel useful.

Of course, he had his teaching, too, and he could cling to that. But there were only so many hours a day that he could teach classes, and be in his office.

Jack couldn't take this away from him.

"Jack, I _need_ to work," Will began, hoping that pleading with his boss would make the other man change his mind. "I can't just sit at home and do nothing."

"Then don't do nothing," Jack told him, shaking his head. "Go fishing, Will. Read a book. Take a trip to some place you've never been before that you've always wanted to go. Just spend some time relaxing. Do something other than go to crime scenes."

"I don't have any place to go," Will muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets and resisting the urge to pace around Jack's office. "You know that."

"I don't know what to tell you, Will," Jack said, leaning back in his chair. "But I think you need a break. You're burning out, and that won't help us in the long run."

"Hannibal told you about the visions I've been having, didn't he?" Will said, his voice quiet. His body had gone taut, and all he could feel was indignation. He hadn't expected Hannibal to go to his boss with this. He had trusted the other man to keep things to himself.

"He told me because he's worried about you, Will," Jack said, his voice soft. "And so am I. Neither of us wants to see you head into a downward spiral."

Will's lips twisted in a parody of a smile. "I see."

Yes, he did. Jack didn't want him to burn out, because then, he wouldn't have anyone to solve crimes for him, and he wouldn't be able to take the credit and be in the spotlight.

He'd never cared before whether he pushed Will too hard or not. He'd never given a damn if anyone burned out. He just used people, and then threw them away when they were no longer useful. That had always been his way, and Will doubted that he'd suddenly changed.

Somehow, Hannibal had obviously managed to convince Jack that he needed a break. Hannibal was right, of course. He did. But that didn't mean that he _wanted_ to take that respite. He didn't feel that he could. He needed to find out what was causing his visions.

If he didn't, then he was going to drive himself insane. Or maybe, Will thought with another twist of his lips, maybe he already was.

He certainly didn't feel as though he was in control any longer.

Jack had never been perceptive, or attuned to the personal needs of anyone who worked for him. And he wasn't now, Will was sure of it. This was Hannibal's doing.

All right, so Hannibal was worried about him. That was understandable. But it still galled Will to know that Hannibal had gone behind his back in telling Jack about what was going on. This wasn't something that he wanted to discuss with his boss. It was too personal.

There were some things that Jack didn't need to know. And anyway, this wasn't affecting Will's work. He could still do his job. Some of the thing he saw now were just .... disconcerting.

But those things wouldn't keep him from doing his job, Will told himself firmly. He wouldn't let them. If he did, then he might as well turn in his FBI badge.

If he could no longer do his job properly, then he had no place out in the field. He was there to help solve cases, to help people get closure. He was there to aid the families of the victims, to find out who had dispatched their loves ones, to put criminals behind bars.

If he couldn't do that, then he had no need to keep working for Jack. If he was held back from accomplishing what he was there to do, he should just turn his back and walk away.

Though for him, that was far more easily said than done.

He couldn't just walk away. He'd spent too much of his time helping those people, put too much of himself into what he did. He couldn't just leave it behind.

His teaching was fulfilling, in a way. But it didn't give him that satisfaction of knowing that he'd done something for the good of the world, putting a killer behind bars and making sure that they wouldn't harm anyone else. Nothing else could give him that feeling of doing some good.

And that was why he'd gone into law enforcement, wasn't it? To do some good in the world. To help people. He couldn't just stop doing that at a moment's notice.

Sighing, he sat down, nodding slowly at Jack.

"Okay. I'll take a leave of absence. But you have to trust me to know when the time is right for me to come back, and not question me about it. Deal?"

Will held his breath, hoping that Jack would agree. If he didn't, then they'd have another arguments on their hands -- and it was one that Will knew he wouldn't win.

Jack did, after all, have Hannibal on his side. Hannibal, who believed that Will needed to take a break. Hannibal, who had talked to Jack without telling Will that he was going to. Will's hands clenched, his eyes narrowing. He would definitely have a talk with his psychiatrist.

The sooner, the better. He was going to confront Hannibal about this, and it was an argument that he intended to win. He was, after all, in the right.

Maybe he _was_ in danger of burning out. But that was for him to decide. Only he could know when it was time for him to pull back, to take a break.

Hannibal and Jack had no right to _force_ it on him. None at all.

Jack nodded slowly, letting out a breath. "All right, Will. You can decide when you're ready to come back. But under one condition. Hannibal and I both have to agree with you."

Will hesitated, then nodded, knowing that agreeing to that stipulation was the only way that he would get what he wanted. And what the hell -- maybe he _did_ need a break. Maybe the reason he was seeing his own death in those visions was simply because he was overworked.

He hoped that was the only reason, but something told him that it went much deeper than that. There were more causes for what he was seeing than just working too hard.

But he wasn't going to find those causes if he did indeed burn out.

Will stood up, nodding to Jack as he left the office and made his way out of the building. The next order of business was to have a talk with Hannibal.

He wanted to find out just why the other man had gone to Jack behind his back. It didn't seem like something that Hannibal would normally do, and Will was sure that there had to be some reasoning behind it that Hannibal had been reluctant to share with him.

Whatever it was, he wanted to find out just _why_ Hannibal would have done something like that. He didn't think it was just out of concern for his well-being.

He couldn't help but feel that he was getting close to some answers.

Hannibal wanted to help him find those answers, he told himself as he pulled his car into traffic and headed towards the freeway that would take him into Baltimore.

When he got to Baltimore, there might be an explosion, Will thought as he pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal. He just hoped that there wouldn't be a lot of nuclear fallout after it happened.


	31. Taking A Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break from his work is the last thing that Will wants, and he intends to confront Hannibal about his part in it. But is that the right thing for him to do?

By the time he arrived in Baltimore, he was angry.

Will had felt that anger simmer within him on the drive from Quantico, and now it was at the boiling point. He knew that he was going to confront Hannibal.

How could the man who claimed to love him have gone behind his back to stop him from working? Didn't he know that inactivity would drive Will insane?

Maybe Hannibal thought that he was pushing himself too hard. That was always a possibility. But on the other hand .... Will gripped the steering wheel as he stopped for a red light, his eyes widening at the thought that had just coalesced into his mind.

Hannibal might have some insight as to why these premonitions of his own death were coming to him -- and he might think that Will taking some time off would make them stop.

But he shook his head as though to clear the thought away, refusing to believe it. If Hannibal had any insight into his problem, he would have said so.

No, there had to be something else going on.

It was almost as though Hannibal _wanted_ to make him pace, climb the walls, keep all of his energy bottled up inside until he exploded.

Will sighed, pressing the gas pedal again when the light turned green. Of course Hannibal didn't want that. But he had to know that work kept him balanced.

Or did it? he asked himself. He was starting to dread going to crime scenes and utilizing his empathic ability; he didn't know when and where he would have one of those terrifying visions again. Sometimes it happened, and then there were times when it didn't.

He was constantly on pins and needles waiting for it to happen again -- and whenever it did, he would feel as though he was fading, or falling apart.

If things kept on like this, he would be in a padded cell wearing a straightjacket before too much longer. And that was one place he definitely did _not_ want to end up.

He turned onto the street the led to Hannibal's home, sighing.

His anger had somehow started to melt away. He couldn't keep it burning for long; whatever Hannibal had told Jack, he was sure that the other man had his best interests at heart. He couldn't believe that Hannibal would do anything that might harm him.

Hannibal simply didn't understand how much his work meant to him, how grounded it kept him. Will would have to explain that to him, in no uncertain terms.

Hannibal would understand. He had to. Will would convince him to go to Jack and say that he'd been wrong, that Will _needed_ to work so he could stay sane.

Or maybe, a small voice piped up in the back of Will's mind, a break was just what he needed. Maybe he needed to distance himself from his work a bit, take some time to relax and push all of the crime scenes, the dead bodies, the criminals and the murders away from him.

He _had_ been focusing on that almost exclusively lately.

But what else did he have to focus on? His work went a long way to defining who he was; it gave him some much-needed stability. Without it, he didn't have much.

Anger rose in him again at the thought of Jack and Hannibal trying to take away that lifeline, to leave him in the dark, uncertain and floundering.

It didn't matter that doing his job brought those premonitions of his death closer to him. It didn't matter that every time he immersed himself in a killer's mind at a crime scene, there was chance that one of those visions would come to him, in crystal-clear, frightening clarity.

What mattered was that he was being pushed in a direction that he didn't want to go, a direction that he was sure wasn't going to be good for him in the long run.

What _would_ be good for him was to keep on doing his job, to keep having those visions, as terrifying as they were, until he had some sort of a breakthrough.

Of course, that breakthrough might never happen.

If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that. He had to acknowledge the fact that those visions might never stop, and that he might never know why they were torturing him.

Could he live with that? Will thought with a sigh. He didn't think so. He had to find out why they were attacking him, and if he was actually seeing his own future.

Or the lack of one, he thought, a wry smile twisting his lips. If those visions were to be believed, then he didn't have much of a future to look forward to. Only a death that would obviously be bloody, and more than likely a painful one that he hadn't seen coming.

Only he _did_ see it coming, didn't he? So he should be able to take steps to avoid it. Maybe getting him away from his work was Hannibal's way of making him do just that.

It was possible that Hannibal thought his death could come about from his work, and the other man was trying t o save him, to make sure that he'd be all right.

Will shrugged at the idea. He supposed that anything was possible.

He wouldn't know Hannibal's motivations, and whether they were something that he would agree with, until the two of them talked all of this over.

Will just hoped that he could manage to keep his temper during that talk. He had never seen Hannibal's bad side, but he was sure that the other man had one; he was positive than when and if Hannibal lost his temper and let himself go, it would be a frightening spectacle.

He didn't want to be on the receiving end of that, he thought with a sigh. Which was why he had to keep his own temper in check, or he very well might be.

He slowed the car as he approached Hannibal's house, taking a deep breath.

This was it, then. He would confront Hannibal with how he felt, and hope that this wouldn't turn into a fight and make the two of them adversaries.

That was one battle that he probably wouldn't be able to win, Will told himself as he got out of the car. He didn't want to discover what that outcome might be.

With slow, measured steps, he approached the house, going up the front steps.

Taking a deep breath, he rang the doorbell, knowing that Hannibal would come to the door sooner or later. Good manners wouldn't let him leave someone just standing here.

Will drew in his breath and closed his eyes for just a moment when he heard footsteps approaching from inside the house. In just a few seconds, Hannibal would open the door.

He hoped that this went well. If it didn't, there would be hell to pay.


	32. Driven To Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will confronts Hannibal about keeping him away from work, and Hannibal has an idea that he hopes will give them some time together to talk about Will's frightening visions.

Hannibal looked up with a frown when he heard a knock on the door.

Who in the world could be visiting him? He got to his feet and headed for the foyer, glancing out of the window at the street in front of the house as he walked.

Ah, it was Will. Hannibal sighed softly; he had expected this confrontation, but he hadn't thought it would come so soon. Will must be even more angry than he'd anticipated.

Of course, Will did have something of a right to be outraged. It really wasn't Hannibal's place to jump into his work life. But Jack Crawford had asked him for a professional opinion of Will's fitness to work at the moment, and Hannibal had given it.

In his eyes, Will shouldn't be working. Going to crime scenes, viewing dead bodies, and getting into the mind of criminals was only making his premonitions worse.

They weren't delusions. Hannibal was sure of that. Will wasn't losing his mind. No, Will was one of the sanest people he knew. He _was_ seeing something.

Whether those visions were prophetic or not .... ah, that was the question.

Hannibal hoped that they weren't. A part of him withered away at the thought of a world without Will in it, a world without that beautiful bright light.

But he really didn't want to deal with Will's anger now. He simply wasn't in the mood for it. He knew that he would have to come up with words to defend what he had told Jack, and at the moment, he didn't want to have to make excuses and placate Will.

Perhaps it would be better to just let the young man vent his anger and stay silent, he thought with another sigh as he reached for the doorknob. He really didn't have a choice.

Steeling himself to meet that cold blue gaze, Hannibal pulled the door open, raising his eyebrows when he saw Will standing there, arms folded over his chest.

"Hello, Will," he said, standing back. "Won't you come in?"

But Will didn't take a step forward; he simply stood there, his blue eyes like chips of ice in his pale face, his lips compressed into a thin line. This was bad, Hannibal thought, his heart sinking. Will was even angrier than he'd thought the young man would be. He obviously didn't want to talk.

Hannibal tried again, giving his voice a conciliatory tone. "I know that you're angry with me, Will. But I told Jack that you shouldn't be working for your own good."

"Without even talking it over with me?" Will asked, his brows raised now. "You could have at least given me some warning before you had Jack cut me loose."

"Will, he didn't fire you from your job," Hannibal said, trying to keep his tone even and calm. "You still have a job. He just wants you to take a hiatus, so that you can come to terms with these visions you've been having. I think you need to do that, before they drive you to distraction."

To his surprise, Will seemed to deflate at those words.

"I don't know what to do, Hannibal," he said, his voice quiet. "Working all the time was helping me not to think about this. Not to be terrified of it."

"And now that you aren't working, you feel that the fear will take you over," Hannibal said softly, understanding what Will was afraid of. "I am so sorry, Will. I hadn't thought of that."

He really should have realized that Will was using his work as a way to cope with his fears, Hannibal berated himself. He hadn't even thought of that. He was used to thinking of Will as being fearless, but of course he wasn't. He was human, with all the weaknesses that anyone would have.

Those visions had to be terrifying in themselves. No one wanted to see their own death. And Will had been seeing that over and over again in his mind.

No wonder he was terrified of not having his work as a distraction.

Hannibal sighed softly, shaking his head. "Will, going to crime scenes and seeing these bodies is only making your visions worse, not better. You have to know that."

Slowly, Will nodded in agreement as he stepped into the foyer of Hannibal's home. "Yeah, I do. I guess I just needed somebody to lash out at. Sorry about that."

"Because you needed someone to blame for taking you away from your work, which is your only distraction," Hannibal murmured. He understood what Will meant. However, he wasn't entirely sure just what the young man needed to replace the distraction of work.

He would think of something, though. Somehow, he would manage to make things right. After all, it was the least he could do to help Will get over this hurdle.

He had taken something away from Will that the other man depended on, without thinking how it might affect Will's day-to-day life. So he had to replace what he had taken.

Maybe the two of them could go away somewhere together.

Hannibal turned the idea over in his head, liking it more as he thought about it. But where could the two of them go? What place would they both enjoy?

And then it came to him. They didn't need to go anywhere. He would simply stay with Will in Wolf Trap for a while. That was the perfect solution.

After all, it wasn't as though Will lived in some terribly isolated place where they wouldn't have access to what Hannibal deemed civilization. It was only a fifteen-minute drive from Will's house to the town of Vienna, and he quite enjoyed the quaintness of that place.

Yes, staying at Wolf Trap with Will seemed to be a good idea. They could walk in the woods, spend more time together, and talk about Will's visions.

It would be relaxing for both of them, Hannibal told himself. He might even be glad to get away from the city for a while, though he wondered how long that would last.

Now he just had to convince Will that this would, indeed, be a good idea.


	33. Exactly What They Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal hopes to persuade Will that he needs a change in his lifestyle.

"Jack seems to think I need a change of scenery."

Will was talking to Hannibal, leaning forwards, elbows on his knees. He was the picture of rapt interest, but that wasn't how he felt, and Hannibal knew it.

"Perhaps a change of scenery isn't exactly what you need at the moment, Will," he said, feeling his way carefully through what he wanted to say. "Maybe what Jack is getting at is that you need a change of company -- or rather, that you need more company."

"You know that I'm no good in social situations, Hannibal," Will said, shaking his head, his tone discouraged. "That isn't a good idea. Not for me."

Hannibal, in turn, shook his head, mirroring Will's movement.

"That's not what I meant," he said, keeping his voice soft and hoping that he sounded persuasive. "I meant that you need someone to talk to, to commune with."

"I talk to you a couple of times a week," Will answered, sounding surprised. "These therapy sessions .... Oh." He paused, looking uncertain. "You mean outside of the therapy sessions? You think I should start coming here more now that I'm out of a job for a while?"

"You haven't been fired, you know," Hannibal told him, his voice calm and soothing. "You are merely taking a sabbatical. That's all. Nothing more."

"I know, but it _feels_ like I have been," Will grumbled, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. "I feel .... I don't know. Rudderless."

"You need more company than just your dogs," Hannibal said, deliberately making his tone severe. "I'm sure that you enjoy being around them, but you cannot exist with only canines around you. I believe that you need some human companionship. And I offer my own."

"You .... what?" Will asked, sitting bolt upright, his blue eyes widening. "You're offering to stay out in Wolf Trap? I thought you hated being in the country."

Hannibal shook his head, smiling. "With you there, I would enjoy the respite."

All right, so that might be a bit of a lie, he told himself. But it was all to the good if it made Will feel better -- and if it got him invited to Will's house for more than a day.

Will needed a change; he needed to be more in the company of humans. And he also needed to take his mind off of his work. He'd needed to do that for a while, Hannibal thought with an inward sigh. Will focused too much on the terrible things he saw every day.

"You need a change in your life, Will," he said with a smile. "And I believe that I'm the person to give you that change. I hope that you can agree with me on that."

His smile widened when Will nodded in agreement.

"You're right," he said, his voice soft. "A change sounds pretty good."

Hannibal hoped that the change would be exactly what they both needed.


	34. Middle of Nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staying at Will's home for a week doesn't seem like paradise to Hannibal - but he has definite plans for what he wants to happen in that time.

Hannibal looked around him, trying not to wince at the sight of the forest.

He liked Will's home, he told himself. Truly, he did. It was rustic, but the house was comfortable, and it had all of the conveniences that Hannibal enjoyed.

But the outside of the place .... well, he felt a bit uncomfortable at being so far away from the city. He didn't like the feeling of being so isolated; he had always preferred to be in the midst of everything, to know all that was going on around him.

Being here made him feel that he was at a distinct disadvantage, but he would try to put any feeling of discomfort out of the way, for Will's sake.

He wanted the other man to be glad that he was here.

More than that, he wanted Will to feel comfortable with his presence here in his home, especially as it was for more than just one night and day.

For Will, this place was a paradise. It was somewhere that he could come to unwind, a home that was devoid of all people. He didn't even have any neighbors closer than at least half a mile away; that was a good distance to go just to see another house, to see human beings.

Of course, Will liked his solitude, and Hannibal couldn't blame him for that. But he himself much preferred being around the bright lights of the city.

For him, this place wouldn't be a paradise, but a trap. It was too far from everything that he was used to, from all that he wanted in his life, from all that he enjoyed.

There was no way that he could live here permanently, even if Will had wanted him to, he thought with an inward shudder. He didn't really see how Will could do it, but then, they were two completely different individuals. Will wanted things that he would never understand.

Yes, there were times when he needed solitude, but he also knew that people were necessary. In some ways, they were absolutely indispensable.

Though not for the reasons that most people might think.

Hannibal sighed softly as he opened the door of his car and got out, going to the trunk for his valise. He would have to get used to being here, at least for a while.

He had told Will that he would stay for a week. That might be enough to help Will on a more personal basis with the frightening visions that he'd been having of his own demise -- and it would certainly be long enough for him to be here in the country, in what felt like the middle of nowhere.

This definitely wasn't what he would call paradise, he told himself again as he banged the trunk shut. But Will was here, and that made this all worthwhile.

He had plans for the coming week. Plans that would begin the moment he set foot in Will's house.


End file.
